The Long Count
by enigma731
Summary: House's team is called upon by a CDC task force investigating a deadly viral outbreak. But pathogens are the least of Chase's concerns. COMPLETE 6.1.2011
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: The Long Count (1/?)

AUTHOR: enigma731

PAIRING: Chase/Cameron

RATING: T

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

SUMMARY: House's team is called upon by a CDC task force investigating a deadly viral outbreak. But pathogens are the least of Chase's concerns.

NOTES: This is another AU future fic. The back story is assumed to parallel canon up through the Season 7 premiere, and perhaps a little beyond. I'm going to aim to update every 7-10 days, but I want to say up front that this will vary. I'm hoping that after November I'll be able to adopt a shorter update interval. I hope you enjoy! (By the way, today is my one-year anniversary of posting the first chapter of _The Rest is Silence_.)

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Chapter One

_5:42 A.M._

_November 17, 2012_

_Princeton, NJ_

The world is covered in frost when Chase wakes, the first glow of sunrise not yet blushing on the horizon. It is only the week before Thanksgiving, but already Princeton has been experiencing record low temperatures, more than a foot of snow dreary-gray and melting on the sidewalks. Creeping fingers of ice glint on the outside of the window as a car passes, and Chase stays shivering under his thick down comforter for a long while, watching the sun climb into a sky heavy with the bloated bellies of clouds. He has never grown fully accustomed to the cold, not even now, after living here for ten years.

Lately he has begun waking early, though he cannot say why. Nothing has changed in his life recently; even the extremity of cases at work has begun to feel routine, mundane. He has grown so accustomed to House's unpredictability that it is no longer surprising. Everything has begun to feel like a carefully choreographed pattern, the illusion of turmoil regularly repeating.

For a long time he has been comforted by the constancy: he has accepted that this is the sort of life he has earned for himself. He has not been truly happy in a very long time, but has learned to content himself with the absence of fear. Sometimes, rarely, he still dreams of Dibala's face, waking in a cold sweat. But now the accompanying guilt has taken a different turn: he is ashamed not of his deeds, but of his own acceptance. At least until recently—with the changing of the leaves, he has felt a profound restlessness creeping into the quiet spaces of his soul, a melancholy for things he dares not allow himself to consider.

The sun is shining pale yellow off of the icy sidewalk below the window as Chase drags himself out of bed at last. The condo's wood floor is cold beneath his bare feet, and seems to send a chill up through his entire body. In the past, he has thought about moving out of this place, of finding a new apartment in which to begin his life again. But he has never found the energy, and now it feels too late, a new equilibrium settled around him before he'd realized what was happening.

The walls of the bedroom are empty, but for the shadows that stretch across them as he dresses hurriedly. Most of the shelves are barren as well, save for his own tattered collection of medical texts. He'd packed up all their photos the weekend after signing the divorce papers, taken the paintings off the walls, wrapped the candles in tissue, and shoved everything into a box with Cameron's new address scrawled hastily on the flap. She'd never called to say whether the package had arrived, and sometimes he wonders if she might simply have thrown the whole thing away, cast off in an instant like the remnants of their disintegrating marriage.

He'd never been able to remember to water the plants, and when they'd died he'd scattered their crisp brown remains in the complex's courtyard and donated the pots to the hospital for the new meditation garden. Scarcely any traces of his old life remain now, yet nothing has come along to take their place. It has been three years, and most of the spaces in his world remain populated by emptiness.

Foreman is already seated at the table when Chase walks into the Diagnostics office, flipping through the glossy pages of a journal without seeming to absorb or focus on anything. A weighty sense of fatigue has permeated the department of late; nothing has changed in years and it is beginning to show, as though their very work might be becoming threadbare. Even House's perpetual vigor for his puzzles is beginning to flag. His work has not been the same since his relationship with Cuddy began, and the rift between personal and professional once born out of hope has only widened since their split. It has been six months since Taub quit in the wake of his own divorce, yet there has been no motion to hire anyone else. At first it was a relief to Chase, working with only House and Foreman. Fewer people with questions, fewer people wanting to know him. But now the department feels stagnant; they are all growing tired of each other.

"You're here early," says Foreman, not looking up.

Chase frowns, bothered by the comment, though he's relatively certain it's innocuous small talk. "Not any earlier than usual. Not any earlier than you."

"_When_ you get here early, you mean," says Foreman, shutting the journal in a rustle of pages. "Slow night last night?"

"Mandy was on the graveyard shift," Chase answers tightly. He knows that Foreman does not approve of his relationship, and the obvious judgment makes his skin crawl.

"Oh good," says Foreman, voice thick with smugness. "Because two months is a new record for you. I was thinking you might get bored soon, and go back to playing the field."

"Why do you care?" Chase shoves a new filter into the coffee pot and jabs the on switch with more force than necessary. His head is pounding already; suddenly he wishes he had come in later, if only to avoid the questioning.

"Because," says Foreman, "when you're out trying to nail anything that qualifies as female, you get distracted and turn into a lousy doctor. Then I have to do extra to compensate."

"Then maybe you should do yourself a favor and lose the attitude of superiority," Chase retorts, sitting heavily with his mug of coffee and pulling over the stack of case files that have been accumulating in the center of the glass conference table. Cuddy has stopped delivering cases in person, instead allowing the team to sift through the pile of potentials for one House will deem worthy of his time.

Foreman snorts softly, and grabs a file of his own from the top of the stack. The first and second appear to be simple; Chase jots down a new battery of tests and marks the files for return to their respective departments. He's halfway through the history of a six-month-old baby with repeated severe infections when House arrives, earlier than usual for once.

"Good morning, team." House makes his way straight over to the whiteboard, more fixated on something than Chase has seen in a long while.

"Got a case?" asks Chase, closing the file though he hasn't finished reading it. He knows better than to try to present it to House now, when his focus is so obviously elsewhere.

"Better," says House, uncapping a marker for the first time in weeks. Its ink has dried out, and it squeaks futilely as he attempts to write with it. House pauses for a moment, staring at the parched felt tip as though he might be able to diagnose and cure it. Then, in one smooth motion, he tosses it across the room and into the trash. Two other spent markers follow it before House finds one still on its streaky last legs of life.

"This had better have something to do with a patient, House," says Foreman, his voice laced with obvious impatience.

Chase rests his chin in one hand, at once intrigued and beginning to feel the first weight of exhaustion from his sleepless night.

"It's better than a patient," says House, still writing.

"Just tell us what we're doing," Foreman pushes.

"We're going to be superheroes," House answers, turning around at last. "Or you guys are, anyway. Nobody's ever heard of a superhero with a cane."

"Superheroes?" asks Foreman skeptically. He still has not closed the file he was reading before House entered, and looks as though he would be more willing to go treat that patient by himself than participate in this discussion. "What's our super power? Saving the world from disease?"

"Stopping a pandemic," says House, pausing dramatically to let the words land with his desired effect. "Faster than a speeding bullet!"

"Okay…" Chase sits up straighter, forcing himself to concentrate. "But there is no pandemic right now. Can't stop something that hasn't started."

"The CDC thinks otherwise. They've asked for our help." House spins the whiteboard around once, neatly, obviously enjoying this immensely. "Well, _my_ help, actually. Which would make sense, since I'm the famous infectious disease guy."

Foreman rolls his eyes; the longer they have gone without anyone new being hired to the team, the more his contempt for the entire department has seemed to grow. "Can we just get on with it?"

"Buzzkill." House mugs dramatically before turning his focus back to the whiteboard. "Meet Austin Griggs, our Patient Zero, lifelong resident of Oceanview, Oregon, otherwise known as Nowheresville. On October thirteenth, Griggs presented to Tillamook General Hospital with fever, headache and altered consciousness. He was initially treated for an early case of seasonal flu, but rapidly deteriorated and was diagnosed with an atypical encephalitis just hours before dying. Over the following week, Griggs's wife, two sons, and business partner began exhibiting the same symptoms. Only the business partner survived."

"Fever and headache?" says Foreman, not waiting for House to finish the presentation. "Anyone think it might have been meningococcal? Would explain the high rate of transmission, and the rapid fatality."

"It's not meningitis. And don't interrupt me. It ruins the suspense." House picks up his cane and loops it around his wrist, watching it swing back and forth like a pendulum for a moment before continuing. "Tillamook General notified the CDC, who sent a small team of Epidemic Intelligence Service officers to investigate. Antibodies to Nipah virus were cultured from serum and sputum samples of the deceased victims."

"Nipah virus?" Chase feels an uneasy tug in the pit of his stomach which he cannot entirely explain; he does not know much about this disease beyond the vague memory of reading ominous reports from earlier outbreaks. "Isn't that the thing that killed a bunch of pig farmers in Malaysia?"

"Yes," says House. "And villagers in Singapore and Bangladesh. There have been a handful of outbreaks across South Asia every year since the virus was first identified in 1999. Never in the U.S. before. And never with such virulent person-to-person transmission. Since Griggs's death, an additional thirty cases have been reported. In just over a month."

"What's the treatment?" asks Foreman, frowning.

"There isn't one," answers Chase, slowly remembering the articles from several years prior. "Every outbreak to date has been linked to contact with infected animals, and contained by destroying the livestock in question."

"So what animal did Austin Griggs get the virus from?" asks Foreman.

"So far, the CDC team has not been able to identify any infected animals in Oceanview," says House, tapping the marker against the board. "But the virus is still continuing to spread. Three new suspected cases reported this morning."

"And what do they want us to do?" asks Chase. "They have their diagnosis. They know what the virus is."

"They don't want us to diagnose a patient," says House. "They want us to diagnose a town. Oceanview is less than fifty miles from Portland. If a disease this virulent got loose in a major city, it could be all over the world within a matter of days. Can't contain an epidemic if you don't know how it's spreading. That's why the CDC wants our help to identify a host."

"And how are we supposed to do that when the outbreak is two thousand miles away?" asks Chase, suddenly skeptical again. House is getting an uncharacteristic amount of enjoyment from this case; ordinarily, he would be irritated by this sort of request. But today he seems almost amused, a clearly inappropriate reaction to a threat this serious.

"We can't," says House, and clearly this is the point he has been waiting to make all along. "That's why you're going to Oceanview tonight."

"What?" Chase stammers, too shocked to care whether he sounds unprofessional. "Why me?"

"Because you're expendable," says House. "Shouldn't have worn a red shirt today. Besides, you didn't really think _I_ was going to go, did you?"

"Why am I expendable?" asks Chase, suddenly and unexpectedly angry. "I've worked for you longer than anyone else. I've put up with your crap for ten years!"

"That doesn't make you valuable," says House, completely unfazed by the outburst. "It just makes you a pushover. Consider this a favor. Maybe a change of scenery will get you out of the rut you've been in."

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Feedback is always appreciated! :)


	2. Chapter 2

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7

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Chapter Two

_6:13 P.M._

_November 17, 2012_

_Princeton, New Jersey_

Chase seethes all the way home to the condo. He is being both self-indulgent and irrational, he knows. Regardless of House's attitude, this outbreak has the definite potential for widespread catastrophe, and it would be both immature and unprofessional of him to put his personal comfort above the health and safety of everyone involved. Furthermore, he has put himself in this position by continuing to work for House after everything they have all been through. He was too afraid to leave when he'd had the chance, and _that_ is what bothers him the most.

Mandy is standing outside his door when he arrives at last, her cheeks flushed from the bitterness of the wind, her bottle-blonde hair looking brittle as it flutters around her face. Though they have been together just over two months he has yet to even consider offering her a spare key. In his mind, that intimacy remains reserved for Cameron, the only woman who has ever been allowed unconditional access to the most private expanses of his life. He has forgotten their dinner plans tonight, his anger at House's latest order eclipsing any thoughts of his personal life. Now, Chase swallows the bile of disappointment, not because he so highly values their time together, but because Mandy will be upset.

"You're late," she says as soon as he is within earshot, though her tone is more quizzical than accusatory. Two months has been plenty long enough to demonstrate the strange hours he is forced to keep in House's department. That Mandy is a nurse has meant that she has a unique understanding of the demands of his job, and makes the relationship feel more legitimate than one started with a random encounter at a bar besides.

"Sorry," Chase mutters, taking a deep breath as he fumbles for his keys. He has forgotten his gloves again, and his knuckles are chapped and painful. His body seems incapable of adapting to winter outerwear; it feels more cumbersome than comforting, like a second skin which lacks all sensation.

"Big case?" Mandy follows him into the condo, stripping off her jacket and scarf and draping them over the back of the couch. She is growing increasingly comfortable in the condo, moving in the space as though it is becoming hers, and somehow this is unsettling to Chase. It is not that he wants the relationship to end, but the thought of it continuing beyond a casual beginning makes him uneasy. Any further level of commitment cannot possibly end well in his mind: either he will become too attached and have his world torn apart once again, or he will find himself the enemy in leaving.

"No." Chase shrugs out of his coat and turns the heat up even higher, feeling as though he might never truly be warm again. He has not been to the Pacific Northwest since moving to the states, but its reputation for dampness and cold only furthers his dread at the prospect of this trip.

"Then what happened?" Mandy turns back to face him, brow furrowed in a way that makes her look like a confused child. She is more than five years his junior, a fact that Chase is not often able to forget, despite his conviction that it should not matter. Sometimes when they are together he feels marginally less lonely. Others, he cannot help but see this relationship as a symbol of all his shortcomings, his own inability to either move forward or walk away, paralyzed within the shell of his own life.

"I—had to make travel arrangements." Chase clears his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets. "I have to go away for a case. Tonight. My flight leaves in three hours." The words come in an unrestrained rush, sharp, like ripping off a bandage.

"Tonight?" Mandy echoes, looking more surprised than anything else, though he knows she will be upset once she recognizes the reality of the situation. "Where are you going? And for how long?"

"Oregon," says Chase, unable to meet her eyes. Flying to the opposite coast is hardly standard business, much as he would like to pass this off as unremarkable. "There's—a CDC team near Portland that needs our help."

"Portland?" Mandy has a tendency to repeat things when she is confused or upset, a trait Chase has noted despite his steadfast avoidance of conflict in their relationship. "That's—not very much notice for you to go flying across the country. And why does the CDC need your help? It's a government agency. Shouldn't they have their own resources? Why would they need to get help from a tiny private hospital thousands of miles away?"

"It's—complicated." Chase sighs, crossing his arms. A few minutes ago, all the same thoughts had been racing through his mind, a plethora of reasons why this ought to be someone else's assignment. Yet now, in the face of Mandy's protest, he feels the need to defend the job. "It's not a matter of manpower. House is a world famous diagnostician. You know that. They need his expertise."

"Then why isn't House going to Oregon?"

"He still has cases here." Chase takes another breath, unsure why he is suddenly so frustrated with her when he's only just gotten past being furious with House for the same reasons. "It's done, okay? I have to go. The arrangements are all made. I'm sorry we'll have to postpone dinner, but this is work. It's important. A lot of lives could be changed by this." He does not mention the outbreak itself; it would only scare her to know what is really going on, he tells himself. It seems kinder to remain vague for as long as possible, at least until national news of the incident has gotten out.

"It's not about dinner," Mandy answers stubbornly. "I just feel like there's always something you're not telling me."

"There's not." Chase swallows hard, profoundly unsettled. "This is just a part of my job. Sometimes that's got to come first." He has not consciously been untruthful with her, but he has not gone out of his way to be open about his past, either. He has become habitually secretive, and it is a difficult instinct to shake. It is not that he distrusts her: sharing these things seems as though it would be giving away a part of himself, to be at her mercy.

"It _always_ comes first," says Mandy, her tone edging on petulant. She takes a breath, visibly trying to calm herself. "Sorry. I know this is important. I just wanted to spend time with you. I'll let you pack." Quickly she steps forward and kisses him, her skin still chilled from the outside.

Chase cannot look at her face as she walks out, her jacket trailing behind her like a flag of defeat. Suddenly he feels again the urge to run. His flight cannot come soon enough.

—

_7:01 A.M._

_November 18, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

The Oceanview Motel is a dilapidated old building with outdated décor and a distinctive smell of mildew. The bed is hard and makes disconcerting creaking noises as if subjecting it to any sort of weight is torture. Still, Chase is completely drained by the time he arrives, having spent eight hours on a plane before the interminable drive from Portland to Oceanview on unlit winding roads. He has yet to see the ocean, but he feels saturated by its dampness, the sharp smell of salt in the night air.

Chase falls asleep immediately, despite the unpleasant lumpiness of the pillow, feeling as though the world is still moving around him, as if he might still be traveling somehow, lost in the pitch black backcountry forever. He dreams of the water, of being trapped in an immovable boat on the fathomless sea, utterly alone with the solitude of the waves crashing all around.

It feels as though he has scarcely gotten to sleep when the knock comes at his door, signaling time to drag himself out of the bed and begin working on this case in earnest.

He's fallen asleep in his clothes, and he feels rumpled and strangely ashamed as he goes to answer the door. He has known that the CDC team would be in touch as soon as possible, but once again he is awake before dawn, this time after traveling all night. His limbs feel heavy, the joints too loose, as though his body cannot properly function as a whole. Opening the door reveals a younger man with stringy black hair and thick-rimmed glasses, the lankiness of his body making him look more like a college student than a government employee.

"Harry Barnes," the young man says, beginning with the rapid-fire delivery of his name before any sort of greeting. He sticks his hand out in a gesture which feels more like an assault than an introduction. "EIS officer. Epidemic Intelligence Service. I always think that's fun to say."

"Robert Chase," Chase offers, still feeling strangely drowsy and disembodied. His name sounds disconnected in his own ears, like he could be talking about someone else. "Are you a doctor?"

"Epidemiologist," says Barnes. "Guess I'm here to balance out you physician guys. You're from Dr. House's team, right? I'm a big, big fan of his work."

Chase cringes inwardly; the last thing he wants right now is to talk about House. "Right," he says flatly.

"Come on," Barnes continues, unfazed. "The boss sent me to come get you. Show you around our glamorous establishment." There's an enthusiasm in his voice that might be contagious if Chase were not so tired, but this morning it simply grates on his ears.

Chase follows Barnes out to his car in silence, grateful that he does not have to drive anymore, at least. Their destination is scarcely ten minutes away from the motel though it is on the other side of town, a testament to Oceanview's small size. As Chase climbs out of the car, he realizes that they are standing in front of the local high school. It seems surrounded by a strange sense of silence in the early-morning light. This is a weekday, Chase remembers, but there is no sign of preparation for the arrival of any students.

"Welcome to Oceanview High," says Barnes, as though sensing Chase's confusion. "Closest thing the town's got to a real lab facility. And they closed it down a few weeks ago for outbreak containment. So we took it over. Big space for a team of three. Four now, I guess, since you're here."

Chase simply nods, following Barnes into the building in silence. The interior has a distinctive sense of suspended motion; posters and bulletin boards fill the walls, a colorful academic environment which gives Chase a peculiar sense of déjà vu. Most of the lights are turned off, and though weak rays of sunlight are beginning to shine through the thick cloud cover outside, the whole place feels eerily barren and dark.

"And this is the science wing." Barnes turns around and sweeps his arms across the hallway in a theatrical gesture more befitting of a tour guide than a scientist. "Where children learn about the life sciences, and we use science to save their lives!"

Chase grimaces; suddenly he finds himself wishing House were here, if only to see his reaction to this sort of unbridled enthusiasm. "Great."

Barnes moves further down the hallway, seemingly oblivious to Chase's chagrin. He stops outside the door to the small teachers' lounge. "Neil Hale is my colleague from the Portland field office. But you can't meet him right now because he's out surveying this morning. Now let's take you to meet the boss."

Chase steps into the teachers' lounge and freezes; suddenly he realizes exactly why House has been so eager to have him come out here. He recognizes Cameron even from behind, even with her hair cut short and dark again. The tension in her back and shoulders is unmistakable, the way she holds herself as though at any moment everything might break.

"Allison," Chase breathes, as she turns around to meet his eyes. He feels trapped out here, his job to solve a crisis in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the ocean and the abyss of memory.

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Feedback is always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7

NOTE: I think I'm going to move the next update a little later in the week, because Monday seems to be a day when a lot of people aren't around online, and also because I don't want to interfere with new episodes once they're back. What day would be better? Tuesday? Wednesday? Let me know, please!

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Chapter Three

_7:45 A.M._

_November 18, 2012_

_Oceanview High_

_Oceanview, OR_

Cameron regards him in silence for a very long moment, a multitude of emotions on her face which he cannot entirely read. She looks as though she has aged beyond the three years since he last saw her, the delicate lines of her face slightly hardened, marked by the extraordinary pressure she has always put upon herself. Chase feels paralyzed, unable to untangle the things he feels in standing here before her after so many years of silence between them. He dreads the realizations that seeing her again will bring, yet at the same time this moment sends a heady rush of adrenaline through him. He feels more alive than he has in a very long time, as though her unexpected presence here has pulled him from the fog of apathy.

"House sent you?" she asks at last, getting to her feet. She is wearing a crisp white lab coat over her sweater, and she pulls it around herself as though it might be a suit of armor.

"Yeah," Chase answers, finding his voice with difficulty. "Surprised?"

The door to the teachers' lounge slams shut, drawing their attention back to a sheepish-looking Barnes. He has apparently let go of the handle in his distraction at watching their exchange. Chase has forgotten that he is here at all, and he suddenly feels as though he has been caught in some very private act, though they have barely said anything to each other at all.

"Barnes," says Cameron, a subtle undertone of annoyance in her voice which makes Chase wonder what their working relationship is like. "I think the latest batch of surveys is in. Do you think you could go compile the data?"

"I get it," says Barnes, either missing her attempt at diplomacy or intentionally defying it. "Go do some grunt work so you can talk in private." He winks in an exaggerated manner that would be almost reminiscent of House's theatrics were everything about his demeanor not so completely naïve.

"Actually," Cameron snaps, "I'm asking you to do your job. You got this assignment because you're specially trained in this type of 'grunt work.'"

"Yes, sir!" Barnes salutes smartly, and is out of the room before Cameron has had a chance to comment further, the door slamming behind him once again.

There is another moment of silence, broken only by the sound of the door swinging back and forth. Cameron takes a breath, her face carefully sculpted into neutrality. There's a coldness in her eyes that Chase has never seen before; she has somehow learned to bury the passion that has always drawn him to her. Yet he still feels captivated, afraid to face her but simultaneously unable to turn away.

"You called House?" he asks at last, when it's clear that she is not going to say anything. He has a hard time believing that she would have reached out to House, even four years after moving out of Princeton. She has made it abundantly clear that she blames him for the collapse of their marriage, for the ruination of her former life.

"Yes." The word is a challenge, though it is unclear what exactly she is rebelling against in her response. "My superiors at the CDC asked me to involve him. He's a world-famous diagnostician."

"I know that," Chase answers too quickly, instantly regretting his own defensiveness. She is clearly expecting to be attacked, and at the moment that is the last thing he wants. "Just—he didn't tell me you'd be here." But House must have known, Chase is certain now, must have seen this as potential for a social experiment in throwing them back together. Only this explains his uncharacteristic enthusiasm for the case.

"I didn't think you'd still be working for him," Cameron admits, and her voice is filled with an unmistakable judgment that makes Chase's skin crawl. He knows his choice to rejoin the team was the last straw in the dissolution of their marriage, but he has yet to understand why that decision was so crucial in her mind, when she'd been wishing the same for herself years prior.

"I like my job," says Chase tightly, though he's uncertain how true that statement is now. Yet it feels somehow important that he be able to defend his choices. If he can pass himself off as happy now, the disastrous end of their relationship might not seem such a waste. He cannot bring himself to admit these things to her, mere moments after inadvertently walking back into her life.

"Good," says Cameron pointedly, and doesn't elaborate, though it's obvious her thoughts are in the same place as his own.

"I never thought you would want to work for the CDC," says Chase, genuinely curious and also searching for a sign that she has not moved on as completely as it seems. "It seems so—impersonal."

"Maybe," says Cameron impassively. "But it has a big impact on a lot of people's lives."

Chase finds himself nodding, though he's not sure he actually agrees, reluctant to argue with her any further. He still feels gutted by her leaving, as though a piece of his core was ripped away the night she walked out and has never been regained. But now he cannot find the anger which once consumed him when thinking of her, which bubbled up in his gut the day she had come back to Princeton to have the divorce papers signed. Now he feels only the strange melancholy which has plagued him for weeks, the deepset sense of restlessness which is threatening to overtake the equilibrium of his life. He wishes their marriage had not ended, he realizes, but can no longer blame her for what has happened. In the back of his mind, he thinks of Mandy, of this relationship he is increasingly growing to fear. He has tried to move on, but instead feels as though he has only succeeded in betraying himself and everyone else in his life.

"So I'm here now," says Chase, taking a breath and trying to calm himself. "I think you should tell me about the case." Their relationship has always been intricately intertwined with work, difficult to separate the professional from the personal. But now he knows there are many lives at stake, and they do not have time to be reliving their past battles this morning.

Cameron regards him for another second before making up her mind, as though she cannot decide whether he might be deceiving her. She is afraid, Chase realizes, though what she fears he is uncertain.

"Sit down," she says at last, and it feels like a tacit acceptance of his role in this case. Regardless of their history, they are both trapped out here now, in this tiny town surrounded by cliffs and the ocean, in the midst of a crisis. They will have no choice but to coexist for the moment, to focus on the professional.

Cameron pulls her chair out from the table and sits, opening the lid of the laptop she's been working on and turning it so Chase can see. He fumbles for his own chair and sinks into it, feeling exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him again as the initial rush of adrenaline begins to fade. Cameron glances at him sideways, still seeming to exude a nervous energy; she appears even less confident in herself now than when they first met ten years ago. At this Chase feels another unexpected wave of sadness: he has seen her grow immensely in both expertise and confidence, but now it seems as though everything she's gained has been peeled away in the span of a few years. He cannot help thinking it must have something to do with his own actions, though she is the one who walked away.

"This is Austin Griggs," says Cameron at last, having pulled up a profile on the computer. "I'm guessing House has already told you something about him." In the photo, Griggs is a charismatic middle-aged man, with bright green eyes and dark hair just beginning to show streaks of gray. He is smiling in the picture, the lines of his face making it look as though he might burst into laughter at any moment. It is hard to imagine that he is dead.

"House said Griggs was Patient Zero," says Chase. "And that his family and business partner had gotten sick too. That's about all." It's hard to remember the details now, when it feels as though his world has been turned upside down overnight.

Cameron nods. "Griggs and his close friend Danny Banks owned a small souvenir shop. Oceanview is apparently a big tourist town during the warmer months. I guess it's a good thing he got sick during the off season, or there might have been an even bigger outbreak."

"And more widespread," says Chase, thinking of how disastrous it would be to have infected vacationers traveling all over the country after being exposed. Once again, he is struck by the true potential for catastrophe in this seemingly-isolated town.

"Griggs started feeling sick at work the second week of October. My team didn't get called until well after he was dead, but reportedly he'd been complaining of a headache for several days before he collapsed behind the cash register." Cameron scrolls through the text on the computer screen, though neither of them is truly reading it. "Banks drove him to Tillamook general, where he was treated for an unidentified virus and later died. Banks was at the hospital with Griggs when he developed his own headache. Luckily, he was scared enough that he asked to be admitted."

"House said he survived?" asks Chase, watching as she pulls up Banks's profile on the computer. It is easier to focus on the case than on the predicament they've found themselves in here, and he is beginning to relax ever so slightly, though it feels perverse to be regarding the outbreak with anything resembling complacency.

"Yes," says Cameron. "Maybe because he began supportive treatment earlier. Maybe because he was a few years younger. Banks was still being treated when the CDC identified Nipah virus RNA in the sputum samples the hospital had collected from Griggs. They tried putting Banks on Ribavirin, since it's shown some level of effectiveness in previous outbreaks, but no one can really say whether that had anything to do with his recovery."

"And what about the families?" asks Chase, feeling uneasy. He does not like infectious diseases which have no clear-cut treatment. He is largely accustomed to having a fix once the problem has finally been identified. That containment is the best they can hope for here makes him feel helpless.

"About a week after Grigg's death, his wife and two sons began exhibiting symptoms and died a few days later." Cameron turns away from the computer momentarily, crossing her arms as she looks at Chase. "Banks's family never got sick. Maybe because he'd spent so much time at the hospital in the days before he developed symptoms. Maybe because he had some kind of genetic immunity we have yet to identify. There's still so much we just don't know."

"So what do we do now?" asks Chase, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of this case. He is used to the microcosm of diagnostics; it has been years since he has even needed to care for more than one patient simultaneously, let alone an entire town.

"Right now we're still mostly in the information-gathering phase," says Cameron. "We've been surveying the residents of Oceanview. Trying to see whether there's any pattern to exposure or non-exposure. It's not clear how the virus is spreading, although it seems pretty obvious there has to be at least some level of person-to-person transmission. But we have no hope of containing the outbreak if we don't know its origin."

"And what do you want me to do?" Chase swallows thickly, forcing himself to meet her eyes for the first time since discovering her presence here.

Cameron hesitates; if she has thought at all about his role on her team, she is uncertain about that decision now. Chase wonders momentarily whether she trusts him more or less than she would a new and unknown member of House's department.

"You can come to the hospital with me," she answers at last. "They have three new cases as of yesterday. We need to talk to those people if possible, and see if we can figure out how they got exposed. And then you can give House a call."

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

NOTE: The case locations in this story are fictional, with the obvious exception of Portland. The hospital and field office are also fictional. However, everything is based on real locations, and all information regarding the CDC and EIS is as accurate as possible.

* * *

Chapter Four

_9:30 A.M._

_November 18, 2012_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase pulls his coat more tightly around himself as he follows Cameron out to the parking lot of the school. The sun is higher in the sky now, but the morning's mist has not yet burned off, and there is a peculiar damp feeling to the air, as if the cold is capable of creeping between the fibers of his clothing to get beneath his skin. Cameron is still wearing her lab coat, even beneath her own winter jacket, something she never would have done outside of the hospital in the past. Chase stays a few steps behind her, watching the way that she moves. This entire thing still feels oddly surreal, the very idea that he could find her again, in this town that feels like the edge of the world, bordering on absurdity.

"This is our official government-provided vehicle," says Cameron, stopping in front of a weather-beaten Jeep. There is a distinct note of annoyance in her voice as she regards the clunky, rust-marked exterior, and Chase wonders again whether she is happy in her current job.

"It's—fitting, I guess," he says, suddenly wanting to see her smile. The Jeep's hubcaps are covered in dried mud, the chalky outlines of raindrops dulling the olive green paint. Cameron has never liked the idea of large cars, has driven a tiny sedan as long as he has known her, and Chase is certain that she must hate being stuck with this assigned SUV.

Cameron shrugs, failing to catch any of the humor in his tone. "The Portland field office is loaning it to us. Cheaper than a rental car, since we don't know how long we'll be here."

"Right," Chase answers, strangely disappointed. He avoids her eyes as he goes around to the passenger side and climbs in. The air inside the Jeep is just as damp as outside, and he shivers again, stifling a yawn. The drive to Portland is more than an hour on winding back roads, and Chase finds himself dreading it. The last time he was alone with Cameron was when they'd signed the divorce papers, when they'd gotten trapped together in the clinic during the lockdown. For a long time, that night has felt like a fresh wound, the dissolution of the last vestige of their marriage, yet a new hope, too, in learning that she does not hate him. Now, he still does not know how to feel, utterly confused about everything save for his own vulnerability.

"How long have you been with the CDC?" he asks, when the silence between them has stretched into torment. He faces the window as she turns the key, the Jeep sputtering reluctantly to life. Chase is unsure whether he is pushing her too far. He has no right to know about her life now, he thinks, yet feels a desperate need to have this information.

"Two years," says Cameron, as she pulls out onto the main road. "I stayed at Children's in Chicago for a year, after. Lived with my parents." She is looking away also when he finally turns to face her, stoically focused on her driving, and Chase has no idea what she might be thinking. She has avoided directly mentioning the divorce, and this seems to be a sign of some sort, though of what he is not sure.

"But you're not living in Chicago now?" asks Chase. It feels like salvage in a strange way, or at least cataloging the damage he has done to her in the collapse of their relationship. He knows she blames herself, has heard those words echoed endlessly in his mind during his loneliest nights. _I pushed you out of my life. I'm unfixable. _It ought to feel like absolution, he thinks, but the memory of that conversation simply intensifies his guilt. She does not deserve to feel this way. Even if she was broken before their relationship ever began, his fear and weakness have only deepened those scars.

"No," Cameron answers, and doesn't volunteer any further information. She is still looking straight ahead, still wearing her lab coat. It looks bizarrely out of place here, in this off-road vehicle driving out of town and into the fog.

"Are you working at the Portland field office?" Chase feels as though he is grasping at straws now, struggling to keep this from feeling like an interrogation, but unable to stop himself.

"No," Cameron repeats, more sharply, then sighs, as though realizing how defensive she is being. "The Epidemic Intelligence Service is based out of CDC headquarters in Atlanta. If you work for them, you live in the area. At least, in between assignments, which isn't very often."

"Have you been overseas a lot?" Chase knows that she had not traveled much before, and this possibility has not even entered his mind the many times he has tried to picture her new life.

At this, she simply nods, offering no elaboration, and Chase senses that it is an oddly emotional subject for her.

"Must have been a big adjustment," he offers, remembering his own feeling of homelessness after moving. Even now, he dreads leaving Princeton in the unforeseen future. "I've never been to Atlanta, you know. What's it like?"

This time Cameron glances at him sideways, as though trying to get a handle on his question. She shrugs, her expression a mix of apathy and cynical amusement. "Hot. Humid. Traffic is terrible. The interstate might as well be a giant parking lot."

"That bad?"

"I think so, sometimes." Another moment passes before she speaks again, almost as an afterthought. A concession. "It's really pretty in the fall, when the leaves turn. And it's a good city for scientists. Lots of hospitals. Lots of good research being done. That's what keeps me there. And I like my job."

This is the first she has admitted to any sort of positive feelings regarding her present life. Chase is not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

—

_11:00 A.M._

_November 18, 2012_

_Tillamook General Hospital_

_Portland, OR_

The hospital is much smaller than Chase has expected, and has a different feel to it than what he has grown accustomed to. Everything here feels more organic somehow, closer to being a part of nature than most of the buildings he has seen. The interior feels like a maze of white-walled hallways; he has forgotten how disorienting a strange hospital can be, the perspective from which most patients see his everyday life. But Cameron is confident as she makes her way up to the isolation area of the infectious disease ward, and Chase follows close behind her.

Cameron glances at him over her shoulder as they reach the locked doors at the edge of the quarantine area. Chase feels immobilized by the scene on the other side of the glass. He has seen countless critically ill patients before, yet this feels somehow vastly different, more alarming because he knows the potential for global disaster. A dozen beds are lined up along the wall in the small containment unit, obviously more than intended for a room this size. All have IV's, with a multitude of bags dripping different life-saving liquids. Some are on respirators, amd all appear to be either asleep or unconscious, perhaps attempting to block out the reality of their illness. One man, who looks to be barely older than a teenager, is shivering violently, almost convulsively, beneath the thin hospital blanket.

"Dr. Chase, this is Dr. Woodson," says Cameron, startling him out of his thoughts. "Dr. Woodson is head of Tillamook General's Department of Infectious Diseases. He's been coordinating care for the patients. And doing a great job, too. They're really not equipped to handle this many severe cases under ordinary circumstances."

Only now does Chase notice the silver-haired man who is standing next to Cameron, regarding her with a cordial familiarity. They cannot have known one another for more than a few weeks, but already seem to have developed a comfortable working relationship. Chase finds himself feeling jealous even of this, wondering whether they can ever be at ease with each other again.

"Good to meet you," says Chase, shaking Woodson's hand with all the professional warmth he can muster.

"Dr. Chase is a member of Dr. House's department," Cameron tells Woodson, and Chase fights the inexplicable urge to cringe. He knows his job seems respectable, remarkable, even, to the outside observer. But in this moment, the only thing that matters to him is Cameron's unspoken disdain for his choices.

Woodson smiles. "Well, I think it's safe to say that everyone in infectious disease knows that name. It'll be good to get his perspective on this case. And yours, Dr. Chase."

"You have new charts for me?" asks Cameron. There's a strange note of anticipation in her voice. She is obviously engaged in her work here.

"Yes," Woodson hands her a thick stack of photocopies, glancing back at the beds behind the glass airlock as she flips through them. "We might as well talk about them now, before we suit up to go inside. Is that all right with you, Dr. Chase?"

"Yeah, sure," Chase answers quickly, surprised at being asked. He knows he is on this case because of House's reputation, intended to give expert consultation. And yet, he feels fully out of his league here, scarcely able to orient himself to the situation at hand, let alone contribute to the investigation.

"Patients Thirty-Two, Thirty-Three, and Thirty-Four," says Woodson, motioning toward the three beds nearest the end of the isolation room. "Ellen Kearney and her two sons, James and Christopher, ages eight and ten. Youngest two patients we've seen so far in this outbreak."

"Where's their father?" asks Cameron. She is taking notes on the photocopied charts Woodson has given her, and Chase envisions her studiously inputting the data on her computer later.

"Don't know," says Woodson. "Kearney identified herself as a single mother at her time of admission. Said they haven't heard from the father since he walked out five years ago."

Cameron nods without looking up.

"Kearney reports having a headache for a few days early last week, although it's not clear whether that was the beginning of her true illness. She's suffered from migraines since she was a teenager. She chalked it up to her usual stress symptoms, and didn't seek medical attention until a couple days ago, when both she and her two sons developed high fevers and some neurological symptoms. All three reported dizziness and short-term memory problems. The youngest son was so disoriented, he didn't know he was in a hospital." Woodson pauses, as if looking for a reaction.

"And you've confirmed that it is Nipah virus?" asks Chase, considering the potential for disaster if this hospital were to start prematurely putting suspected cases into the same isolation room with those already diagnosed. "It is also flu season. Early symptoms could look the same."

"We did confirm it," says Woodson. He smiles wryly. "Our lab techs are getting very good at doing that assay. But you make a good point. We've only seen a few cases of influenza so far this season, but it'll certainly make the course of this outbreak more complicated to trace when the big wave does come."

"So do we have any idea how Kearney was exposed?" asks Cameron.

"That's what I'm hoping you can help us figure out," says Woodson. "She wasn't making a whole lot of sense on admission. She thought possibly one of her sons had been exposed first, but as you know, the schools have been closed for weeks."

Cameron nods. "And who knows where she might have gotten exposed in Oceanview. It's such a wildcard right now. We have no idea what activities are risky. Shop for groceries, you might get exposed. Put gas in your car, you might get exposed. One of the reasons I had such a hard time recruiting people for the team. As long as we don't know what to avoid, we could get exposed too."

"I think we should interview the patients," says Chase, trying to shut out this information. "Then I can give House an update." He is accustomed to being at risk when searching a patient's home, or even simply walking through the hospital. But hearing this makes him feel incredibly vulnerable again, in so many more ways than one.

"All right," says Woodson. "Follow me. I hope you both like space suits."

* * *

New updates from here on out will be on Tuesday or Wednesday. Also, today is my birthday, and reviews make awesome gifts! ;)


	5. Chapter 5

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7

* * *

Chapter Five

_6:02 P.M. _

_November 18, 2012_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase is thoroughly exhausted by the time they return to the high school, the sensation of trying not to doze on the silent car ride back reminiscent of their early days working for House. It has been a very long time since anyone in the department has been dedicated enough to work through the night. The parking lot is deserted, the few cars which had been present in the morning now gone. It is beginning to get dark already, though it is not yet dinnertime.

"Is your car at the motel?" asks Cameron, pausing the Jeep in front of the school. She seems to have relaxed slightly since leaving the hospital, but there is still a distance about her he cannot quite read. Somehow, she seems more defensive even than when he saw her last in Princeton, though he'd thought they'd cleared the air at least to some extent on that day. But perhaps he has been mistaken, deluding himself into false hope for where they stand now. She has made no attempt to contact him in the years since, after all.

"Yeah," he answers, realizing he's been silent too long. Cameron is regarding him with a mixture of concern and puzzlement.

"I'll drive you back," she says evenly. "I don't need to be here to compile the new information."

Chase simply nods, too weary to question her. Oceanview is small enough that he could walk back, but the route Barnes took in the morning has already faded from his memory, and he has no wish to go out in the cold rain which has begun falling over the past hour. A few minutes later, Cameron is pulling into the motel's parking lot, surprising him when she gathers up her bags and follows him into the lobby.

"You're staying here too?" he asks, a little incredulous as she punches the button for the sluggish old elevator. He feels a little thrill of adrenaline at this, even through the exhaustion.

"It's the only place open during the off season," says Cameron, shrugging. "Believe me, I wouldn't have picked it if we'd been given a choice."

"Where's your room?" asks Chase, unable to help himself as the elevator comes to a lurching first stop. Despite everything, he finds himself still wanting to be close to her in any way she might allow. He knows he does not deserve it, and yet the words are out of his mouth before he's even thought about what he is saying.

"Nowhere near yours," Cameron answers coolly, pushing the button to close the elevator doors in his face as she steps off. "Go do your job."

Chase sighs, watching her retreat down the hallway just before the doors block his view. His hotel room feels even more dismal than before, everything seeming to sag in the pervasive dampness even the heater cannot fully drive out. Sinking onto the bed, he slips out of his jacket, wincing at the tension in his back and shoulders which seems as though it might never go away. The last thing he wants right now is to talk to House, to face up to this latest manipulative game. Yet he knows that not calling will only complicate things further, and so forces himself to pull his cell phone from his pocket. There are two missed calls from Mandy, he notices, but no voicemails. He tells himself that he doesn't have anything to relay to her yet, and presses the number for House's speed dial.

"How's Cameron?" asks House as soon as he picks up, immediately confirming Chase's suspicions that he has known all along.

"About as thrilled with you as I am right now," Chase answers sourly. "Is this just a game to you? People are dying." He wants to cut straight to the point of this call, so that he can go to bed at last and forget about this nightmare for a few hours.

"People die every day," says House, unfazed. "Ask Cameron. She's been chasing plagues all over the Third World."

"Great," snaps Chase. "Glad I could be your entertainment for the night. Run out of soaps on TV?"

"You know," says House, "some people would be grateful. Getting a second chance to fix what you screwed up. Or third, really."

"And some people would tell you to stay the hell out of my business." Chase takes a breath, forcing himself to calm down. "I've moved on. Can we please just talk about the case?"House clearly wants to get a rise out of him, and so far he is delivering magnificently. It is the false sense of charity that upsets him the most; if he is honest with himself, he _is_ grateful to be working with Cameron again, if only out of his own sense of twisted masochism. But his aversion to pity resents the invasion of his most private failures.

"Sure," says House, his tone still maddeningly light. "Three new patients. Go."

"Ellen Kearney, single mother, and her two sons," says Chase, trying to remember everything. "So far, most of the cases have been traced to contact with Austin Griggs—Patient Zero—or his business partner, or exposure to people who caught the virus from them."

"But that's not the whole story, or this would be a really boring case. Meaning the CDC drones wouldn't need my help." House sounds immensely self-satisfied, though only slightly interested in the relevant conversation.

"It's not," Chase agrees. "Kearney and her sons live on the other side of town from Griggs's souvenir shop. She wasn't entirely coherent when we interviewed her, but she denied any contact with him or his family. She hasn't had much contact with anyone, actually. She's been struggling with major depression ever since her marriage fell apart five years ago. Seems it's been especially bad lately, with the seasons changing and daylight hours being shorter. She's been having trouble getting out of bed, let alone going anywhere in public."

"What about the kids?" asks House, sounding interested now.

"Schools have been closed since the first cases were identified. Even if they got exposed before that, it's too long an incubation period considering when they got sick." Chase closes his eyes for a moment, picturing the pained look on Ellen Kearney's sweat-slick face as she'd told them all of this. "And Kearney says she hasn't let them leave the house since the news broke."

"So either she's lying, or somehow a self-proclaimed hermit got exposed to a virus that so far has only been spreading from person to person." House is quiet for a long moment, and Chase can practically picture him twirling his cane, deep in thought. "Treat it like any other case."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" asks Chase.

"Search the home," says House. "If Kearney hasn't been going out, we need to know everything that's been going in."

–

_7:31 A.M._

_November 19, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

The rain is still falling when Chase wakes, making the whole world outside gray and sodden. He forces himself out of bed though it is still dark out, knowing he needs to act before everyone else has left to go back to work for the day. The pimply-faced kid behind the front desk gives him Cameron's room number, eager to please. Chase knows she will not be happy with this invasion of her dubious privacy here, but he has no way of getting to Kearney's house without her help, and he wants her with him besides. There is a deja vu about this part of the case which gives him a peculiar sense of excitement.

Cameron is already dressed when she opens the door, though her hair is still curling wet around her shoulders. The subtle smell of her shampoo is almost overwhelming as he recognizes it, still the same even three years later, and for a moment Chase feels suffocated by regret.

"Have a good talk with House?" she asks, sounding irritated. "I'm assuming that's why you're here. Did he take it upon himself to tell you my room number, too?"

"No, I did that investigation myself," Chase answers tartly. She is being unnecessarily confrontational, and he longs for a simple friendly conversation. "House wants us to investigate the home. Thought you'd want to come along."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I don't take orders from House anymore," says Cameron stubbornly. "I work for the government. And there is no way my superiors are going to condone breaking and entering."

"So you don't tell them," Chase argues. "I'm not going to tell anyone. And they're over a thousand miles away." He has worked for House so long that he no longer has any hesitation about the methods. And it seems obvious that they need more information than what they can learn directly from Kearney, in her state of diminished consciousness.

"I am not going to let House manipulate me," Cameron insists, crossing her arms so that the tension in her body is almost palpable. "I joined the EIS to get away from his influence."

"And yet you called him for help," says Chase, determined. "And I agree with him. Medically. You said yourself that it's been hard to get the full picture when everyone we're interviewing has compromised awareness. And as long as we don't know what's going on, anyone could still get sick. Ellen Kearney and her sons are an anomaly. They could be the key to this whole case. If you have a problem listening to House, then fine. I'm not asking you to help him. Help me."

–

_9:02 A.M._

_November 19, 2012_

_Kearney Residence_

_Oceanview, OR_

Ellen Kearney's home is a wreck. The paint on the outside is dull and peeling, dark spots of mold growing on the roof. The yard is overgrown as well, a tangle of weeds flourishing in the abundant rainfall. Chase pauses over the threshold, suddenly doubting the decision to come here without a full HazMat suit.

"What?" asks Cameron, peering over his shoulder. She is wearing her white lab coat again, but even it seems less crisp in the dreary weather, and there are the ghosts of dark circles under her eyes. Chase finds himself wondering how late she has stayed up compiling data.

"We have no idea what she got exposed to," says Chase, trying to swallow down the uneasiness churning in the pit of his stomach. "And her house looks like it's a dump inside. Maybe we should have some kind of protection."

"We're not going to be able to walk into someone's home in space suits without the media all over us," says Cameron. "Part of our job here is to help alleviate people's fear. If they get too scared, they're going to get stupid, and take actions that endanger everyone more. The last thing we want to do is create mass panic. Besides, Nipah isn't airborne, and there's never been any evidence of surviving on inorganic surfaces."

"All right," says Chase, and steps inside pulling on a pair of gloves, and glancing over his shoulder to make sure she is following. He knows all too well what she isn't saying. Everything about this outbreak is atypical; they cannot base their assumptions on evidence from past cases. Still, he trusts her judgment enough to act on it.

The inside of the Kearney home is dark, heavy curtains over all of the windows obscuring even the small amount of light coming in from the rainy day outside. Even in the shadows, it is clear that the place has not been cleaned in months. There are piles of trash and other household debris on the floor; the rancid scent of something rotting is overpowering from the kitchen. Chase gropes for the light switch, but finds it ineffective.

"Power's out," says Cameron, pointing to the blank face of a digital clock on the counter. There is something eerie about it, as though time itself has stopped in this house.

"She must not have paid the bill," says Chase, frowning.

Cameron nods. "It doesn't look like they have any kind of animals," she says, slowly making her way through the darkened rooms. "No food or water bowls."

In the kitchen, the sink is filled with dirty dishes, the floor covered in a sea of takeout bags. They are plain brown with no distinguishing marks to give a clue where they have come from. Chase makes a mental note of this; it seems too large a pattern to ignore.

"Chase, come look at this," Cameron calls from the other room, the sound of his name in her voice oddly startling. She has pulled back the curtains in the living room, and is looking at something outside. As Chase gets closer, he realizes that the backyard of the Kearney home is surrounded by woods.

"You think she goes for walks out there?" asks Chase.

"Maybe," Cameron answers thoughtfully. "I guess if she's not leaving the house, that's pretty unlikely. But her kids might play out there even if she's not going outside. In Asia, Nipah is spread by bats. It might be worth trying to get some specimens. We'll need equipment for that, though."

Chase nods. "Done the bedrooms yet?"

Cameron shakes her head, and he heads for that end of the house without waiting for her. The master bedroom is as much of a disaster as the rest, the comforter crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed like a diaphanous shroud. There is a single empty liquor bottle on the bedside table, and Chase sucks in a breath, suddenly feeling like he might be standing in his childhood home. There is a picture on the table as well, Chase notices, knocked forward onto its frame. Righting it reveals a faded wedding photograph, a young and healthy Ellen Kearney and her long-absent husband beaming in the sunlight.

Cameron's footsteps in the doorway startle Chase out of his thoughts, and he turns just in time to know that she has seen what he is holding. There's a look in her eyes he cannot read, and though he senses that there is something pivotal in this moment, he cannot find his voice to say anything.

"We're done here," Cameron decides firmly, before he's had a chance to speak. "We should get back."

* * *

Reviews are always appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7

* * *

Chapter Six

_11:21 A. M._

_November 19, 2012_

_Oceanview High_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase is still reeling from the morning when they return to the teachers' lounge at the high school. The first thing that catches his attention upon entering the room this time is the array of graphs and data hung on the wall at the far end of the room, tracking rates of infection and death. The pages are layered over a display of motivational posters, harsh reality eclipsing the youthful enthusiasm which ought to be flourishing here. He cannot help but think of Ellen Kearney's two sons, hooked up to machines and fighting for their lives.

"Hey, the Boss Lady's back!" Barnes exclaims, making Chase jump as he rockets out of his chair.

"Please don't call me that," says Cameron, in a tone which suggests this is a losing battle she's been fighting for the past several weeks.

"Bring us presents?" asks Barnes, completely unfazed. "And by that I mean new data." The clarification is aimed at Chase, as though he might not be able to follow this exchange without a translation.

"I'm getting to that," says Cameron, drawing Chase's attention to the other man in the room. "Dr. Chase, this is Dr. Neil Hale."

"Doctor as in PhD," says Hale, without getting up. He is a dour middle-aged man, with salt and pepper hair and lines which seem to have permanently etched a scowl into the planes of his face. "Not physician." It is clear that he views his own degree as superior.

"Good to meet you." Chase starts to offer his hand, but then realizes that Hale is not going to get out of his chair for any sort of formalities.

"Personally I don't know why Allison felt the need to bring in outside help." The use of her first name seems oddly derogatory coming from Hale in this manner. "We have excellent resources in Portland."

"And the more resources, the better," answers Cameron firmly. It is the first time she has openly defended Chase's involvement in the case, or shown him anything other than disapproval. He wonders silently about the dynamics of her team. It seems clear that House is not the only one in danger of undermining her authority, and Chase feels instinctively protective.

"Can we talk about the new data?" Barnes repeats, earning his own glare from Hale.

"Fine," says Cameron, taking a seat at the table, and waiting until Chase has pulled up his own chair. "Patients Ellen, James, and Christopher Kearney. Single mother and her two sons. Ellen suffers from anxiety and depression, and has apparently been holed up in her house since the first news of the virus broke."

"So she didn't catch it from another person," says Barnes, scribbling in chicken-scratch handwriting on the loose-leaf pad in from of him. Chase finds himself wishing they had a whiteboard.

"Not necessarily," he interjects. "It's been over a month since the outbreak started. I'm guessing she didn't have that much food stockpiled. So she must have had contact with someone."

"A friend?" suggests Barnes. "Someone bringing her supplies? She has kids, they probably have friends, at least. Maybe a parent from school."

"Unlikely," says Hale. "If she's been so withdrawn, I highly doubt she'd be calling someone asking for donations of groceries. You said she's a single mother, right? Probably doesn't want anyone's pity."

"Well, they're obviously not starving," says Cameron. "They did get supplies from somewhere, unless she had a private disaster store hidden away for months prior."

Chase knows what she is not saying: having seen Ellen Kearney's house, they know that she did not have a secret stockpile of supplies. Yet Cameron cannot say this in front of her team, and he knows that he must be careful not to say anything that would raise suspicions. "Takeout?" he suggests, remembering the large number of paper bags in the wrecked kitchen.

Cameron nods. "We should find out which restaurants deliver. Then we can see whether any of their delivery people might have been a carrier. That would be crucial information to have. Think of the potential for transmission that way, especially if carrier is asymptomatic."

"Delivering cheap greasy food with a side of death!" jokes Barnes, then seems to realize what he's just said. "Sorry. That was morbid. Suddenly I'm not hungry for lunch anymore."

"Good," says Cameron. "Then it can be your job to look into delivery places and personnel."

"It's also entirely likely that Kearney did not catch the virus from another person," says Hale. "In past outbreaks, there has been very little evidence for such virulent person-to-person transmission. And we have yet to identify any other source of infection in Oceanview. It had to come from somewhere to begin with."

"It could have come from a tourist," says Barnes. "Come, spread your illness, then leave?"

"Then we'd see outbreaks elsewhere," Hale answers calmly. He seems completely comfortable with dismissing this possibility outright.

"Maybe not," argues Barnes. "Maybe the carrier was from South Asia. Maybe they came here, then went back to an area where Nipah is already endemic."

"But that still would have exposed others on the plane," says Cameron. "It's unlikely that none of them would have gotten sick, then gone back home somewhere else and gotten other people sick. Although we can check customs records, to be sure. I guess it's possible that a small outbreak could be masquerading somewhere as a particularly bad strain of seasonal flu."

"I think that's ridiculous," says Hale. "A waste of our time."

"Then you can be the one to do it," Cameron answers defiantly. "We have an unexplained deadly outbreak that could very easily become a global health threat. We can't afford to rule out any possibility without investigating it."

Hale opens his mouth as if to protest, and Chase finds himself rushing to cut him off. "We also found out that Kearney has a wooded area behind her property. We're thinking the kids might play out there."

"Bats!" exclaims Barnes, triumphantly.

"Well, we don't know," says Cameron. "But possibly. We'll need to get some specimens."

"Bring on the bat traps!" says Barnes, once again sounding far too excited.

—

_3:44 P.M._

_November 19, 2012_

_Oceanview, OR_

Dusk is approaching by the time they have procured bat traps from Portland Animal Control, and the forest behind the Kearney property feels eerily silent, as though the virus itself might be lurking in the shadows, awaiting a host to attack. They have gone around the house to access the yard this time, but Chase cannot help remembering the way the inside of it looked, like a tomb filled with the decaying remains of painful memories.

"Are you sure it's okay for us to be out here without the space suits?" asks Chase, as he and Cameron near the edge of the tree line. They have brought gloves, shoe covers, and particulate masks, but somehow this still does not feel secure enough. Chase finds himself wishing for a full suit of armor, physical and emotional.

"Don't do that," Cameron answers, pulling on her gloves, mask still dangling around her neck. "It's not like we're being completely cavalier about walking into a potentially infectious area. We're taking precautions. Transmission from bat to human typically occurs through the ingestion of palm sap or other tree-based products contaminated with urine or saliva from an infected animal. Don't let yourself get paranoid. Next thing you know, you'll be afraid to get out of bed without a space suit on. Then you won't be in a position to help anyone."

"You've been with the EIS for two years," says Chase, adjusting the mask over his nose and mouth. It feels out of place here in the forest, strangely reminiscent of being in the operating room. "You ever catch any of the diseases you were investigating?"

"No," says Cameron, adjusting the heavy pack of supplies on her back, then pulling her own mask into place. "Right after I started, I was with a team working on the cholera outbreak in Haiti. Several of my colleagues got sick. But they were fine. They got treatment in time. That's the unfair part of working for the CDC – we're entitled to the kind of medical care the people we're helping can't afford. Ironic, isn't it?"

"I—guess so," says Chase, taken aback by her sudden cynicism. This is the sort of statement he would have expected during the years they both spent working for House. But that she would have such a moral objection to a humanitarian effort is something he hasn't considered, though he's forced to admit that what she's just said makes sense.

"Helping underprivileged populations doesn't make us immune to the wrongdoings of society." Cameron starts into the forest without waiting for him to follow.

Chase finds himself rushing after her, feeling left behind in more ways than one, as he has for months now. It is as though his own life is accelerating, leaving him paralyzed, mired down in guilt and regret. The last few years of his life feel like a shameful waste.

"What ever happened to believing in the good in people?" asks Chase, strangely bothered by her bitterness. It's been a long time since he has harbored any vengeance toward her; the past three years, he has wanted to believe that she is happy. But now, seeing her beliefs so fundamentally changed, he feels as though she must have lost a piece of herself.

"I still believe that," Cameron answers, pausing as they come to the mouth of a small cave several hundred feet into the tree cover. "I'm just not naïve enough to think anyone can save the world."

"Then why try?" asks Chase, genuinely curious. It sounds like a heartless question, though, and he regrets it the moment the words are out of his mouth.

Cameron gapes at him for a moment in disbelief, confirming his fears about the question. "Are you serious? It's worth it to every person I help. Just because we can't change the way the world works—that doesn't invalidate the good that we _can_ do."

"Right," says Chase, feeling as though he has ruined any chance for an honest conversation with her. She had started to open up, if only a little, but her defenses have come flying back up again at his ignorance. "Sorry."

"We should put a trap up here," says Cameron tightly, ignoring his apology. "We'll have to move quickly if we want to get it in place before the bats become active for the night. Assuming there are bats in this cave."

"Okay," Chase answers, still strangely disappointed. "What do you need me to do?"

"Get your side in the ground." Cameron hands him one end of the long, collapsed trap.

It unfolds to reveal long strands of metal wire, painted black to be invisible in the dark. At the bottom is a large canvas bag, to capture the stunned bats after they have become entangled. Chase feels strangely unnerved by the thing, and by the idea of diseased animals crowding into the collection bag, a cesspool of deadly virus. Still, he knows that they have no choice. If the bats in these woods are the natural reservoir for Nipah, they will need to be exterminated in order to contain the outbreak.

"We should keep going," says Cameron, when they've finished setting up in front of the cave. "There might be other roost locations nearby. We'll need to get to them before it gets dark." She starts walking again without so much as waiting for an acknowledgement, and Chase once again suspects that she is using this task as a defense, an excuse to shut out even harmless pleasantries.

"Allison, wait," Chase blurts, unable to stop himself.

Cameron pauses, but doesn't entirely turn around, regarding him over her shoulder with something resembling confused annoyance.

"You—can talk to me, you know," stumbles Chase, unsure what he actually wants to tell her now that he has her attention. "I'm not here to hurt you." He has no right to expect anything from her, and yet he does, he realizes. After seeing her in Princeton the last time, he'd spent a sleepless night expecting a phone call from her, a change of heart. But there has been nothing all along, and now that they are working together again, there is only the boundless distance between them, cold and impassable as the sea.

"I know," says Cameron, her tone devoid of any emotion, as though she might be repeating the latest survey statistics. "But I don't want to. I'm not here to revisit past mistakes. I'm here to do my job."

* * *

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! (Reviews earn my eternal gratitude. ;p )


	7. Chapter 7

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7

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Chapter Seven

_9:40 A.M._

_November 22, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

The morning of Thanksgiving dawns frigid and overcast, the ever-present chill in the air sharpened even more. The window is frosted over when Chase wakes, and he thinks again of the day he first received this assignment.

The case has been relatively quiet for the past few days; the bat traps have yielded little in the way of specimens. Either the unusually cold weather has dampened animal activity, or they have failed to set up the snares in any areas where bats actually roost. Hale and Barnes have been about their own tasks, checking into food service workers and customs logs. For his part, Chase has spent the majority of the time huddled in his room under the meager hotel comforter, poring over the EIS training manual Cameron has given him, and trying to learn the methods of a government-run epidemiological investigation. It is dense reading, filled with complicated statistics and terms with which he is not familiar. Over the past ten years working for House, he has forgotten many of the interview protocols he was taught in medical school, learning to rely instead on logic and instinct. Now, the techniques he is supposed to be learning feel backwards to him, and he fears he might never truly feel at-ease with this team.

Chase has scarcely gotten dressed when his cell phone rings, and he scrambles into the mess of sheets and comforter to unearth it, surprised that anyone would be calling this early.

"This is Chase," he says out of habit, not having taken the time to look at the caller ID.

"Yes, I know," says Mandy, sounding taken aback by his greeting. "I mean, I was starting to wonder if you'd lost your phone or something. I've called you at least ten times since you left."

"I'm—sorry," answers Chase, knowing that she is correct, and that he has been anything but considerate in avoiding her messages. Still, he does not know what to say to her, feeling even more at a loss within this strange relationship now that his world has been turned upside down. He'd thought he'd been working hard to move on, but now seeing Cameron so profoundly transformed, he feels as though the past three years have been nothing but a disappointment and a waste.

"Well, I was just calling to tell you happy Thanksgiving," says Mandy, reminding him of the significance of this day.

"Oh," says Chase, feeling clumsy and tongue-tied, unable to articulate any of the many thoughts currently rushing through his mind. "Yeah. You too."

"You forgot, didn't you?" Mandy sighs audibly. "Look, I know you're busy. I know this is a big case. I heard about it on the news the other day. I'm not asking for a lot of your time. I just—want to know you're okay out there."

"I'm fine," says Chase, struggling to convince even himself. "It's just—there's a lot to do with the case that I can't talk about. You know how government jobs are. And we've been trying to keep the media out of it as much as possible, avoid a big panic."

"But I'm not the media," says Mandy, sounding hurt. "I'm—just me. I've been really worried about you."

"I'm sorry," Chase repeats, feeling the sick weight of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He can't help remembering Cameron's concern in the weeks before everything came tumbling down, the terrible fear in her eyes he'd never been able to assuage. He knows he ought to be doing everything in his power to avoid making the same mistake in his relationship with Mandy, and yet all he can think about is how very much he regrets the past.

"Just call me once in a while, okay?" Mandy sounds like she is on the verge of tears, and he can picture her, watery gaze fixed firmly on the floor. "Even if you can't tell me what's going on. I just want to talk to you. That's all I'm asking."

"Okay," says Chase, because it is the only answer at the moment. "Are you spending Thanksgiving with someone, at least?"

"I'm at my mom's," says Mandy. "The whole family is here."

Suddenly Chase is incredibly grateful for this case coming when it did. He knows he would have been invited to join her family for the holiday, expected to accept since it is painfully obvious that he does not have anyone else to be with on this day. But that is a commitment he is far from ready to make, and he is glad he has managed to avoid hurting her, if only in this one small way.

"Look, I have to go," says Mandy, and Chase realizes that he has been silent for far too long. "I have to help with the turkey."

"Okay," says Chase, guiltily relieved. "I hope you have a good day."

"I love you, you know," says Mandy, and the words fall from her lips with an ease that makes Chase think she does not know their true meaning.

"I'll talk to you later," says Chase, and hangs up the phone.

In the silence he feels a strange sense of unrest again, an absolute inability to pick up the training manual and focus on it this morning. He had forgotten about the holiday, but now he is reminded of the two years he'd spent with Cameron's parents. How, when they'd finally gotten married, he'd allowed himself to feel like he might once again be part of a family. But then he remembers also the terrible Thanksgiving after she'd left, how he'd planned to have some sort of meal for himself in the name of proving to the world that he did not need help. But in the end, all he'd managed to do was down the better part of a bottle of whiskey. He'd woken the next morning to the unprepared food sitting rancid on the counter and the shrill sound of his alarm signifying time to go back to work.

Slipping into his coat, Chase makes his way out through the motel lobby and into the biting cold. He is unsure of where he is going, but his room suddenly feels much too claustrophobic. There is a small path behind the building, and he takes it on a whim, remembering seeing Cameron walking in this direction several times before. It leads down a rocky hill to the beach, where the wispy ghosts of snow flurries are falling down into the ocean, only to disappear. He can't say whether he has come here in hopes of running into Cameron, but is unsurprised when he catches sight of her sitting on a flat rock several hundred feet away, knees drawn up to her chest, watching the waves crash onto the frosty sand.

Wordlessly, Chase makes his way over and sits beside her. Cameron turns slowly, face entirely impassive, as though this meeting is not entirely unexpected to her, either.

"Hi," Chase breathes at last, when she has met his eyes. There is a sadness about her he has not seen before, not when she'd walked out of the condo and their marriage, not even when he'd agreed to make the divorce final at last. Her gaze seems as desolate as the cloud-covered horizon.

"Come looking for me?" asks Cameron, turning to look at the water again.

"No," says Chase, then considers. "I mean—I don't know. I wanted to tell you happy Thanksgiving."

Cameron snorts softly at that. "Why?"

Chase shrugs. "Because—someone reminded me of what day it is, and that always makes me think of you. Cooking Thanksgiving dinner with your dad and your brother. Those were—some of the best holidays I'd ever had. I'd never celebrated Thanksgiving before that, you know."

"Don't," Cameron says harshly, before he can go on. "Don't go there."

"What, I'm not allowed to have good memories that involve you?" Chase pulls his coat tighter, reaching out to catch a few delicate snowflakes on his palm and willing himself to remain calm.

"I left you," says Cameron simply, letting the words hang in the air against the ebb and flow of the ocean. "I divorced you. I don't want to revisit those memories."

"I don't want to only think about the way things ended," Chase argues, terribly disturbed by her condemnation of their relationship in its entirety. Her attitude toward him now seems so entirely different than when she'd come to have the divorce papers signed. He remembers dancing with her then, laughing, the hope it had given him to know that she could still appreciate the good times as well. But now all of that is gone, replaced by ever-strengthening defenses he cannot break down.

"You gave me the best three years of my life," he tries again, when she still has not answered.

"And now they're over," says Cameron stonily.

"They don't have to be," argues Chase, surprising himself. He knows he is being irrational, knows he ought to let the subject drop before he upsets her any worse. Before he makes their nonexistent rapport even more strained. He ought to change topics, let her know that the outbreak has been on the news, but those things seem inconsequential now, his personal feelings for once outweighing his better professional judgment.

"I don't hate you," Chase continues in a rush, getting up to stand in front of her. "And I'm pretty sure that deep down, you don't really hate me. I've given you no reason to. I know that things between us might not ever be the same again. But why can't we just stop with the sniping and be—I don't know, civil. Friendly."

"Oh, so you're saying that you think we can just start over?" Cameron gets to her feet as well, facing him directly, defiance written in every line of her body.

"I think we could at least try!" Chase goes still for a moment, struck by the sound of his own voice echoing off the rocks behind them. He has begun shouting without realizing, breathing hard in misty white puffs. His eyes ache with tension, with the many emotions he still dares not express.

"Oh, that sounds so nice," Cameron mocks bitterly. "Why don't we go back to your room right now and have sex? Or better yet, do it right here on the beach. I mean, that's what you wanted from me, right?"

"What?" Chase gapes at her in shock. He has made a habit of losing himself in mindless sex when at the lowest points in his life, a base distraction from his inability to form a real connection. The short-term is his specialty; he knows all the tricks to charm and disarm. He has always been fully confident in this. But now more than ever, he is desperately unable to achieve anything deeper, more honest. Not even here in this moment, when it matters most.

"I got a call from Foreman last night," she answers coldly. "He said I should keep an eye on you. Told me you've spent the last two years out seducing everything with two legs and a pair of breasts. And that you have a girlfriend at home you haven't talked to in over a week. I know your MO, Chase. You're not going to get to me this time."

"You—actually think I'm trying to manipulate you?" asks Chase after a moment, feeling at once stunned and betrayed. "That I _ever_ have?" He has laid bare before her this morning more of his vulnerabilities than he has dared let anyone see in a very long time. Yet she has scorned all of his attempts at rebuilding any sort of relationship, and he finds that he cannot blame her for the assumption. He cannot even fault Foreman for trying to warn her. Chase swallows thickly, feeling suddenly that everything about the person he has become is sullied by his failed attempts at moving forward, nothing short of despicable.

For one fleeting moment, Cameron looks as though she might cry, a shadow of the brokenness he'd seen in her in that darkened clinic exam room. But then she turns away, any semblance of connection lost.

"I have work to do," she says simply, and walks away without looking back.

* * *

Feedback is greatly appreciated!


	8. Chapter 8

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7

* * *

Chapter Eight

_12:32 P.M._

_November 23, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase has become accustomed to random phone calls and knocks at the door, summoning him to some as-yet unknown assignment. He has nearly finished reading the interminable training manual when this particular interruption comes, beginning to feel directionless again.

"We're going on a field trip!" says Barnes, the moment Chase has opened the door.

"Okay," says Chase, too exhausted to respond to Barnes's enthusiasm. He has barely slept since his confrontation with Cameron, sitting up watching snowflakes drift to the ground outside the motel window and trying to convince himself that the last few years of his life have not been entirely a waste. Now, as he collects his coat, the room swims before his eyes.

"The Boss Lady sent me to get you," says Barnes. He looks as excited as a small child on Christmas morning. "We're going shopping for a Black Friday deal on some microbes."

"I don't think Dr. Cameron wants you to call her that," says Chase sourly. He feels fiercely protective toward her, though he's aware of how backward that impulse is when he has caused her more pain than anyone else.

Barnes shrugs, unfazed. "Come on."

Outside, the snow has turned to slush on the pavement, making the asphalt a treacherously slippery mess. Cameron is standing outside the battered old Jeep when they reach the parking lot, and Chase hesitates momentarily, irrationally afraid to face her in a professional setting after her discussion with Foreman.

"Get in," she says simply, and climbs into the driver's side, coaxing the sputtering transmission to life.

Barnes gets obediently into the back before Chase can say a word, and he feels an odd sense of trepidation getting into the passenger seat. He does not want to see Cameron's face, is ashamed at having anyone else here to witness her disdain for his choices.

"Barnes, care to brief Dr. Chase on where we're going?" she asks, once they have pulled out onto the main road.

"We are going on a tour of the Deep Sea Diner, also known as Oceanview's most popular delivery place," says Barnes, still sounding far too cheerful about this.

"Were they delivering food to Ellen Kearney before she got sick?" asks Chase, willing himself to focus on this information. Cameron would not have asked him to participate in this trip were she not convinced that this professional experience will be beneficial. The last thing he wants is to allow his personal problems to render his medical knowledge useless.

"We're not sure," Barnes answers, unfazed. "Lots of restaurants are struggling right now, since no one wants to go out in public and risk getting exposed to the virus. Got lots of people telling me they had no records of their recent deliveries. I think they're worried that it would hurt their business if word got out we'd been asking questions."

"Rightfully so," says Cameron darkly. "Not that we're about to release that information. But you never know who might be noticing things. I got a call from the front desk this morning saying a reporter was there looking to interview me."

"That's kind of backwards, isn't it?" says Barnes. "Isn't surveilling people supposed to be the government's job?"

"Barnes," Cameron chides impatiently. "It's a small town. We're going to be there in a minute. Could you please finish?"

"Oh, right," says Barnes. "So we don't know whether or not they've actually delivered to any of the people who've gotten sick recently. But it _is_ the most popular place in town. By a lot. And the best part?"

"Barnes," Cameron repeats, more firmly.

"Sorry!" Barnes leans forward, head between the two front seats. "The best part is, absolutely no one from the Deep Sea has been sick. No employees, no delivery guys, no family members of any of them."

"So it's an anomaly," says Chase. "Especially since they must have had contact with the public while being at work."

"I like anomalies!" Barnes exclaims loudly.

Cameron pulls into the parking lot before anything else can be said. The building is small, off the town's small main road. The placement makes it look more like a house than a restaurant, situated away from the other businesses in town and surrounded by a very large yard with a high fence. The façade is a garish shade of orange with bright green writing, which reminds Chase oddly of an overly ripe carrot. It has begun snowing again, the fragile flakes dusting his coat as they all get out of the Jeep. The snow here feels oddly different than in Princeton, tainted somehow by the sea.

A green Open sign flickers in the window, though the diner is obviously deserted inside. A little bell tinkles over the threshold as Cameron pulls the door open. For an unnervingly long moment, they all stand inside the restaurant in silence, little evidence that anyone else is even working here. The interior is vastly different from a typical small-town restaurant, with the neon lights and tacky décor Chase has come to expect. Instead, there are tiny candles burning on every table, and the thick smell of incense hangs in the air.

"Hello?" Cameron calls tentatively. She looks out of her element here, strangely lost. There is an air of confidence about her within the high school lab, and even doing fieldwork in the forest. But here she seems uncertain; this is a situation which she cannot control.

There is a muffled scuffling noise from the back of the room, followed by the sound of a door slamming. A moment later, a small man emerges. His face is lined with age, and he walks with his back hunched slightly. His eyes are obscured behind a mop of gray hair, and there is something oddly mousy about his demeanor, as though he might be prepared to flee the room at any sign of sudden movement.

"Can I help you?" he asks, in a voice which reminds Chase of sandpaper on rough wood.

Cameron takes another step forward, offering her hand. "I'm Dr. Cameron. These are my colleagues Dr. Chase and Harry Barnes. We're with the CDC."

"The CDC?" The man runs a hand through his hair, looking even more distraught than he did a moment ago. Chase feels as though the air is thick with anxiety, as if this man's apprehensions could somehow be contagious. "Why are you here? I run a clean restaurant. No one's gotten sick here. I can't help you."

"Maybe we could start with your name," says Chase, with as much charm as he can muster. "We're not here to accuse you of anything. We just want to have a conversation. Then maybe we could have lunch here?" He glances sideways at Cameron, who nods her silent approval.

"Oliver Cunningham," says the man at last, shaking Chase's hand quickly, regarding his palm as though the gesture might actually be some sort of trap. "Owner of the Deep Sea."

"You own the whole sea?" Barnes jokes, then seems to realize how corny he's being when nobody responds. "Sorry."

"What do you need from me?" asks Cunningham, still looking nervous. "I told you, no one's gotten sick at my restaurant. I don't even know anyone who's been sick. That's an accomplishment around here lately, you know."

"We know," Cameron agrees. There's something strange in her voice, as though she doesn't quite believe her own statement. "We were wondering if you had any ideas about why that might be. Is there something you're doing differently at your restaurant?"

Cunningham glances back and forth between the three of them for the space of several tense breaths before answering. "Well—I wanted to base the Deep Sea on a health-food model. So many small-town places like this serve nothing but cheap ingredients fried in grease. It's toxic."

"So your recipes are based on good nutrition?" asks Chase. There is a stack of menus behind the receptionist station to his right, and he picks one up, flipping through it. All of the foods are either vegetarian or vegan, he notices.

"Partly," says Cunningham. He seems to relax ever so slightly as he speaks; it is clear that they have hit upon a topic about which he is passionate. "It's not just about cooking healthy recipes. You have to have good ingredients, too. Most of the stuff that's out there today is so saturated with chemicals, you might as well be eating poison. We're all going to end up mutants one day if we keep eating that crap."

"So you buy organic ingredients?" asks Chase, surprised by the sudden outburst of bitterness from such a timid man.

"Oh, not buy!" Cunningham exclaims, sounding horrified. "Even organic fruits and vegetables can have pesticides on them. Not to mention hormones. Practically all the produce out there on the market today has been contaminated with genetically modified material. I wouldn't eat that myself, let alone serve it to my customers."

"So where do your ingredients come from?" Cameron pulls out a crisp legal pad and a pen, preparing to take notes.

"We grow it ourselves," says Cunningham. "Sustainable gardening. It's going to be the only way in the near future."

"Why do you say that?" asks Cameron, brow furrowed.

"All of the deception and destructiveness going on in the food industry right now?" Cunningham laughs sardonically. "Something's going to happen. Something big. Just wait."

"Is your garden on the premises?" asks Chase, remembering the unique location of the diner, and the strangely large yard around it.

"Yes," says Cunningham. "Been hit pretty hard with this cold snap. We don't usually get hard freezes here, you know. Ocean breeze protects us from it. But with climate change—who knows."

"Can we see the garden?" Cameron caps her pen, glancing back at Chase, as if for reassurance, surprising him.

"It's all covered up right now to protect it from the frost," says Cunningham. "But I don't see why not. Maybe you government people could learn a thing or two. Come on."

They are halfway to the back door when Barnes's cell phone rings, making Chase realize that he has been uncharacteristically quiet during the course of this conversation. For all of his unbridled enthusiasm on the car ride over, he seems completely lost in the world of professional communication.

"I need to get this," Barnes says simply, extracting his phone from his pocket. "I'll be out in front when you guys are done."

Cameron doesn't comment, and Cunningham leads the way out into the garden. Its neat rows stretch over a surprisingly large area, though Chase imagines quite a lot of produce would be needed to supply even a small establishment like the diner. As promised, the plants themselves are covered in a bright assortment of mismatched sheets and blankets. This is an area outside of his expertise; he has no idea what they ought to be looking for here. It seems as though such an obvious anomaly ought to be able to show them something, and yet the connection is elusive. It is pointless to be looking for a mode of virus transmission here, since this place has not been linked to any infections. They are here to search, yet Chase feels helplessly directionless.

"What do you do for pest control, if you don't use chemicals?" asks Cameron, stooping to lift up the edge of a blanket.

"Natural remedies," says Cunningham. "Appropriate fencing. And some things we let the pests share with us. It's their habitat too, after all."

"Do you ever see any bats around here?" Cameron gets her notepad out again and jots something down, as though signifying that this is an especially important question.

"In the more forested areas, of course," answers Cunningham, sounding unconcerned. "Never seen them around the crops. Not enough trees in this area. And they're only after the bugs. Not our food."

"Thank you," Cameron says after a moment, definitively. "That's all we need for now. Although I think we would like to try some of your food for lunch."

Cunningham nods, about to answer, when Barnes comes around the side of the building, flushed and breathing hard, phone still in hand, though the call is clearly finished now. "That was Dr. Hale. We have to go right now. Tillamook General just got twelve new cases. All at once. Biggest load yet."

* * *

Feedback makes finals week better! ;)


	9. Chapter 9

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7

* * *

Chapter Nine

_1:03 P.M._

_November 23, 2012_

_Deep Sea Diner_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase feels his stomach drop as the words slowly register. Everything seems to be moving too rapidly around him: they are outside and climbing back into the Jeep before his mind has had a chance to catch up with the motion of his legs. Cunningham says nothing as they retreat, though he appears visibly relieved to have them out of the diner. He stands on the curb, watching as Cameron pulls away.

"Details?" she asks Barnes, as soon as they are once again out on the road. "Twelve cases at once? How were they identified? And have they been confirmed?" She does not take the turn to go back toward the high school or the motel, clearly intending to head straight for the hospital in Portland.

"No confirmation yet," says Barnes. "Right now they're just concerned with how to quarantine twelve acutely ill patients. Tillamook General isn't equipped for an outbreak this big. Never was, from the beginning. But none of the other hospitals in the area want to risk taking them, since they haven't been exposed yet. Dr. Hale seems to share that sentiment. He's not willing to use his contacts in the Portland CDC field office to bargain with them."

He is leaning forward between the two seats again, and Chase feels oddly claustrophobic, trapped. Barnes is clearly anxious, tapping his pen against his teeth in a nervous tic that makes Chase fight the urge to reach out and grab it. All hints of his typical easygoing enthusiasm have vanished now, replaced by a wide-eyed stare that makes him seem even more like a hapless novice on this case.

"Are they quarantining these patients separately from the confirmed cases?" asks Chase, remembering the large room they'd seen upon visiting the hospital before, beds, respirators, and IV poles placed uncomfortably close together for lack of space. "If they haven't confirmed Nipah, these people could still have something unrelated to the outbreak. Putting them into that containment room would be a death sentence." His heart is pounding in his temples, and his thoughts feel sluggish despite the adrenaline rush, too many sleepless nights catching up to mingle with nauseating anxiety.

"Two unrelated, deadly outbreaks with the same symptoms?" Cameron interrupts, her tone practically dripping with skepticism. "In a town with a population of less than two thousand, that would have to be an act of god."

"And you don't believe in god," Barnes chimes in grimly.

"The last thing we need here is to start working off assumptions," Chase argues, bothered by her dismissal. It goes against everything he has learned in a decade of working diagnostics. It is too deeply ingrained in his mind that hasty conclusions can kill patients.

"Did Hale give you any more details?" Cameron asks Barnes, ignoring Chase's warning. She seems oddly unfazed by this latest development, unchanged in the stoicism which now seems to envelope her like a stolid layer of armor. "Do we know how these people got infected? And how they were identified all at once? Was this an outbreak at a public gathering?"

"He didn't say," Barnes answers, frowning until it looks as though the ridges of his brow might become permanently furrowed. "But isn't it kind of unlikely that it would have happened at a gathering? Nipah has an incubation time of several days, at the very least. Weeks, even. Even if they got infected together, it would be weird for them to all be in the same place at the same time after that kind of delay."

"If there's no more information, then right now we should be focusing on what we just learned at the diner," says Cameron decisively. "We can worry about the rest when we have the full story. Until then, it's a waste of time and energy. Both of which we need to be saving right now."

"Seriously?" Barnes protests incredulously. "You want us to talk about Mr. Creepyham and his vegetable garden _now_?"

"Yes," Cameron answers firmly. "I want to hear your impressions now. Before we get any more preoccupied with the new cases. This is important, I think. Instincts are important."

"So you obviously think we learned something important there," says Chase, failing to keep the sour note out of his voice. He resents her condescension, and her outright rejection of the things they have both learned from House, the things that once made them a great team.

"And you don't?" Cameron challenges. "It's an anomaly. I know you'd be the first to remind me that anomalies tell us things."

"Or it's unrelated," says Chase. "It's a diner, not a symptom. This town is not a single human patient. We can't treat our process the exact same way." There is something bothersome about Oliver Cunningham and the Deep Sea Diner, he cannot deny. And yet, logically, none of what they have learned there seems connected to the outbreak in the least. They are all growing paranoid, he thinks, grasping at straws as the situation spirals out of control.

"And we're not! I'm _trying_ to teach you the methods that _we_ use in the EIS," Cameron snaps, raising her voice for the first time in this conversation. "I _get_ that everything in your mind goes back to the way House would do it. He has you so brainwashed that you don't even realize anymore!"

"That's right!" Chase retorts nastily. "I'm toxic. I remember."

Cameron flinches at that, swerving the Jeep to narrowly avoid a large pothole in the road. When she looks back again, her gaze is completely distant once more, any hint of vulnerability now perfectly concealed. "We look at factors in people's lives that are associated with increased or decreased risk of infection. Working at the diner, or being related to someone who works there, is associated with a statistically significantly lower risk of getting the virus."

"Oh, well if it's _statistical_," Chase mocks. He is painfully aware of his own unprofessionalism, yet unable to restrain himself in the moment.

"Keep going," Cameron answers defiantly. "You sound just like him."

"Yeah, it's an anomaly," Chase admits in exasperation. "But it being connected to the outbreak doesn't make any sense. What are you suggesting, that Cunningham's garden somehow grows magic ingredients which make people immune to the virus?"

"I'm _suggesting_ that maybe we should be looking into diet as a related factor. Maybe there is something different about the way he's treating his produce. Maybe there's something in pesticide or processed foods that lowers people's resistance to the virus. There is _lots_ of evidence to suggest that an unhealthy diet lowers immune function in general." Cameron takes a breath and exhales slowly, visibly trying to calm herself.

"That—makes sense," Chase admits after a moment, feeling a rush of shame for his outburst. Once again, he is reminded of his lack of expertise in this type of investigation; it has not even occurred to him to consider the factors she has just suggested. Leaning back heavily against the seat, he feels as though the distance between them is greater than ever.

—

_7:45 P.M._

_November 23, 2012_

_Tillamook General Hospital_

_Portland, OR_

There is a strange familiarity about the conference room into which Woodson leads them. The large glass windows are reminiscent of the Diagnostics office, darkness outside concealing the fact that these are very different lights, a city thousands of miles from home. Chase sits heavily in one of the chairs, every muscle in his body aching with fatigue. The tiny hospital is now terribly overwhelmed, and he has spent the afternoon fighting to keep the most critically ill of the new patients alive. Despite their best efforts, two have died already, and it seems unlikely at best that anyone in this group will be able to recover.

"Call the hospital first," says Chase, handing Woodson a slip of paper with the numbers hastily scrawled on it.

"It's nearly eight o'clock." Woodson frowns, hesitating. "You think Dr. House will still be at work at this hour?"

"Yeah," Chase answers, though he honestly is not sure. Three years ago, it would have been almost a certainty, but now it has been months since he has stayed late enough to see for himself, and he cannot say whether House's habits have changed.

"Guess that's what you do when you're famous," says Barnes, sounding strangely wistful.

"That's what you do when you want to avoid your lonely, miserable life," Cameron corrects him.

"Sound familiar?" Chase shoots back reflexively, then immediately regrets the dig.

Woodson clears his throat. "I'm dialing now."

House answers after only the second ring, and the sound of his television is evident in the background as Woodson sets the call to speaker mode.

"You have new recon for me?" he asks, sounding mildly interested.

"We're at Tillamook General," says Chase, feeling as though this conversation is an oddly private act, being broadcast to everyone else in the room. "Twelve new cases of Nipah identified today, now confirmed. Two have already died."

"Sounds like you guys are losing control out there," says House. "But obviously you're calling me because you already know that."

"We're doing fine," says Cameron firmly. Chase glances at her across the table, surprised that she has chosen to speak at all. Thus far, since leaving Princeton, she has seemed dead set against any sort of interaction with House or the old department.

"Right," House mocks. "That's why the big bosses in Atlanta wanted me involved. Because your record is _great_ right now."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Cameron answers sourly. "You're really making me regret leaving your department. If only I'd stayed, maybe I would have learned to be omniscient. Then we wouldn't need an investigation at all!"

"The twelve new patients were living together inside a church," Woodson interrupts, attempting to steer the conversation back on course. "It seems that one of them is a faith healer and claimed to be able to protect the group from the virus. When they fell ill, they did not seek medical attention, believing that they would be better served by prayer. They were found this morning, when several concerned family members contacted the police. All in critical condition."

"And what, exactly, do you want me to do?" asks House. "Sounds more like an outbreak of stupidity caused this than any kind of viral escalation. That's the government's territory, not mine."

"Trying to cure themselves with prayer wasn't the brightest of decisions," Chase admits, struggling to collect his thoughts. "But the question is, how did they get exposed? According to the families, they'd been holed up in there for over a month. No contact with the outside world. If they'd been exposed that long ago, they'd all be dead long before now."

"So we've got another instance of infection despite isolation," says House thoughtfully. "Search the church. Find out what's been going on there. And swab all the surfaces, see if this strain of the virus can be shed onto inorganic material. If it can, then you've really got yourselves a problem."

"We can't," Cameron interrupts. "The church is currently being investigated as a crime scene by the local police department. We can get them to take some samples, but as long as it stays a local investigation, we have no jurisdiction until they say we can go in there."

"And that'll be, what, in a few weeks?" asks House. "After another dozen people have died? I spent years teaching you how to break and enter. Use your skills."

"I am _not_ going to break into a crime scene," Cameron answers stubbornly. "This could be a case of coercion. Some of the patients who were living in the church are children. That constitutes abuse. I can call Atlanta and see if they'll put pressure on Oceanview PD, but that's the best I can do. I'm not going to compromise their investigation."

"Really? Because I thought you always did what was best for the patients." House's tone has changed dramatically now; he is out for blood, confident in his manipulations, though Chase is unsure of his goal.

"I do," Cameron answers icily. "Within protocol."

"Right, _protocol_," House mocks. "I remember now. You always follow protocol. Just like you did in the Congo last summer, when you decided to start giving your own anti-malarial pills to your patients."

Cameron blanches at this, at last shocked into silence. She does not answer, tension hanging palpably in the air of the small conference room until it seems irrationally difficult to breathe.

"Yeah, I did a little research of my own," House continues at last. "I know you're on the outs with headquarters. That's why you've got a junior officer with you, so he can report back on everything that you're doing. That's why you had no choice but to call my team when you were asked."

Chase glances across the table at Barnes, who is looking fearful again. It seems impossible to believe that he might be anything other than a harmlessly naïve colleague, that the future of Cameron's career might rest on his observations. And yet Chase does not doubt House's information in the slightest.

"I don't care how you get into that church," says House. "Just get in there before all the evidence we need has been destroyed. Good night."

There is an audible clatter as he hangs up the other end of the phone line, then the grating sound of the dial tone.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7

NOTE: Happy holidays to everyone celebrating!

* * *

_3:22 A.M._

_November 25, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

The forest is deathly still.

Chase stands in front of the cave, staring into the opaque shadow of its gaping maw. The air around him is damp, saturated with the musty smell of the decaying leaves which carpet the ground. Something is coming, he is certain, though what it is he cannot yet fathom. There is something magnetic about the cave; Chase finds himself mesmerized, unable to look away despite the growing unease in the pit of his stomach. He has the impulse to run, to get indoors as quickly as possible, and yet he feels paralyzed.

The sun creeps lower on the horizon as he watches, dulled by the inky blots of dark storm clouds in a blood red sky. The fleeting light fades further still, the shadows growing longer, reaching thin grasping fingers toward Chase's feet. Something is very wrong, the smell of ozone sharp in the air as a hot wind begins to blow, greeting dusk. High above, a loud rumbling begins, like the sound of many thunder crashes from very far away, a stampede of hoofed animals in the sky. Something breaks away from the cloud mass, glowing painfully bright: a ball of flame which floats to the ground with an exquisite grace, landing weightlessly at the base of a tree, igniting it instantly. A moment later, a second fireball follows, then a third, and presently too many to count.

The sound of wings pulls Chase's attention away from the flames just in time to see the first of the bats take flight. The roost empties in a constant stream, little black bodies shooting straight upward between furiously-beating wings, as though they are intent upon blotting out the sky even as the earth burns red and hot. The clouds on the horizon become a writhing mass of bats as the dying sun sets, leaving nothing but the fire to illuminate the ending of the world.

Chase wakes with a gasp to the sound of frantic pounding on the door. For a moment he cannot shake the dream, is certain that whoever is standing out in the hallway has come to tell him of the rain of fire outside. Scrambling out of bed, he fumbles with the curtains, feeling weak with relief when he sees that the only things glowing are the street lights in the parking lot behind the motel. The knocking comes again, and this time he rushes to answer it. Barnes is standing there as always, but after House's revelation, Chase feels as though he is seeing his young colleague again for the first time.

"Something happen?" asks Chase, struggling to keep his breathing even. There is something profoundly personal about this dream, and he feels the inexplicable urge to conceal the experience from everyone else.

"Yes," says Barnes, stammering nervously. "I mean, no. Not really. Nothing new, anyway. I need your help."

"_My_ help?" Chase crosses his arms and tries to center himself, still struggling to focus on the present moment. "It's the middle of the night."

"Exactly!" says Barnes, then lowers his voice. "That's exactly why I had to come get you now. We have to do this while everyone's asleep, or it won't work. And I don't think we want to wait another day."

"Do what, Barnes?" Chase feels his skin crawl with suspicion.

Barnes leans even further forward, projecting an air of botched secrecy. The man would not know how to be subtle if he'd taken a college course in it. "You and me are going to go break into that church. Get the samples that Dr. House wanted."

"_What_?" Chase blurts, entirely taken aback. "You're serious." He has had ample time to observe Barnes's propensity for over-enthusiasm and hero-worship on the job, but this is a new level entirely.

"Well—yeah." Barnes takes a breath, looking slightly less than confident for the first time in this conversation. "Dr. House was right. About me. The Director assigned me to this case so I could keep an eye on Dr. Cameron. I have to report back on everything she does. But—I'm not here to be watching _me_. Nobody ever said I had to report on what _I'm_ doing. And we need that evidence."

"So—you're here to spy on Cameron, but you'd put your own career on the line to help her investigation succeed?" Chase bites his lip, feeling oddly as though he might still be dreaming.

"Pretty much, yeah," says Barnes, looking regretful. "Look. I joined the EIS because viruses are my thing. I love epidemiology. I'm just here to save some people's lives. I can't help the political red tape I got caught up in."

"And yet you're going along with it," says Chase.

Barnes shrugs. "Have to. Price you pay to work for the government. But nobody ever said I can't jump through hoops _and_ do what I came here to do. Come on. It's not going to be good if I have to call Atlanta tomorrow and tell them we've got twelve new cases and no new leads. Do you want to help Dr. Cameron or not?"

Chase is silent for a long moment, weighing odds. In a strange way, Barnes's latest scheme reminds him of House's perpetual tactics for avoiding Cuddy's rules and regulations. He has a decade's experience aiding and abetting in the evasion of protocol. And yet he is reminded again how far out of his depth he is here; he has no way to gauge the consequences for anyone involved should their efforts go awry. But in the end, he knows that he will not be able to sit back and watch Cameron's world come crashing down while selfishly doing nothing once more.

"Let's go."

—

_4:01 A.M._

_November 25, 2012_

_Church of the Eternal Tides_

_Oceanview, OR_

Barnes parks the Jeep a block down from the church, as though somehow that might conceal their presence here. The street is cold, dark, and deserted, devoid even of lamps on this stretch. There are no cars in sight, save for their own vehicle, and Chase feels blatantly exposed as they make their way up the sidewalk.

The church is an unmarked stone building, with a roof that somehow manages to look dilapidated in spite of its sturdy structure. The grass all around has died, shrunken to sodden brown debris. There is a crooked sign listing dates and times, which Chase can only assume correspond to worship services of some sort. The sign's wood is rotten, an assortment of tiny insects traveling up and down its path like some sort of morbid thoroughfare.

"Put these on," whispers Barnes, as they approach the door. From his bag, he produces gloves and a thick respirator mask, the more durable cousin of the ones Chase is accustomed to wearing in the operating room.

"Think this is good enough?" asks Chase, feeling his heartbeat grow more rapid again. He wishes irrationally that Cameron could be with them, as if her judgment might somehow solely be able to keep them all safe.

"Well, we don't really have a choice, do we?" asks Barnes. "We're sneaking around as it is. If we got HazMat suits, Portland would have to know about it. Nipah's spread by respiratory secretions. Even if there was anything left in the air, it shouldn't be able to get through these masks."

"Yeah, but we're taking samples to see if this strain can survive on inorganic surfaces," Chase argues. "If we walk in there, then find out that it does—What then?"

Barnes pauses for a moment, then shrugs. "Guess we just hope it doesn't."

Chase takes a breath, then nods, pulling on the gloves and mask. He has spent his life working some of the rarest and deadliest cases in the world, he tells himself. He no longer fears the ICU, or hospital quarantine areas, and this situation ought to be no different. This decision is against his better judgment, and yet he is forced to agree that they have no choice. They have committed themselves to solving this case, and going into the church now is the only way forward. It takes only a few moments to get through the lock, the door swinging open to reveal the interior of the darkened building. The air inside is strangely damp, and the light switch turns ineffectively in his hand.

"What is it with people in this town not keeping up on their electric bills?" Chase mutters, switching on the flashlight Barnes has provided.

"Maybe they're afraid of the light," Barnes jokes, then laughs nervously at his own joke.

The church's sanctuary is one large room, and from the stains on the carpet in front of the altar, Chase is nearly certain that is where this group of patients spent the majority of their time here. The area is cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, and he bites his lip as he slips under it, stooping to swab the area. There is an eerie feeling of claustrophobia in this dark and empty building, as though it might be crowded by the spirits of the people who have suffered here.

"I don't want anything to happen to Dr. Cameron, you know," says Barnes. He is walking slowly through the pews, collecting his own samples. "You have some kind of history with her, right? I mean—you've got to."

"Yeah," Chase answers distractedly. "We—worked together for a long time. For House." A part of him is surprised that Cameron has not told anyone of their marriage. Yet he knows that there would be no reason for her to bring it up, especially when she seems to have worked so hard to keep from thinking about it herself.

"Dr. Cameron worked for Dr. House?" Barnes pauses in his tracks, swinging the flashlight around in a way which leaves Chase momentarily blinded. He sounds entirely taken aback by this revelation.

"She didn't tell you?" asks Chase, equally shocked. "She worked for him for six years. We both did."

"No," says Barnes, sounding troubled. "She just said she had a background in diagnostics. I always assumed that was how she knew of Dr. House's work. I mean, who doesn't, right? But if I'd known she'd _worked_ for him—" A goofy grin spreads over his face, despite the macabre task at hand. "He's, like, my idol. I've always wanted to meet him."

"I don't think Cameron'd be the person to ask about arranging that," says Chase. He steps out from under the crime scene tape, and begins swabbing the large altar for samples. "She's not exactly House's biggest fan right now."

"Yeah, I got that the other night," answers Barnes. "I mean, I've been working with her the past year, way before I got assigned to observe her. There's always been things she wouldn't talk about. But she's one of the best scientists we've got, if you ask me. More than just a doctor."

"What doesn't she talk about?" asks Chase, unable to quell his own curiosity. "I mean, other than working for House." He knows Cameron would be furious were she aware that they have been talking about her in this way, yet these latest hints of the secrets she's kept have left him desperate for answers, a window into the parts of her life from which he has been so obviously excluded.

Barnes picks up a hymnal and flips through it absently, the look on his face saying that he is not really seeing the words on the pages. "Well—personal things, mostly. She's really private. Not that that's a bad thing, right? She's my colleague and my superior. But I always thought it was a little weird nobody knew anything at all about her life outside of work."

"Her life _is_ her work," says Chase, slightly disappointed. These things do not surprise him; he is intimately familiar with the persistence required to get beyond Cameron's defenses even a little ways.

"Well, that's the way most of us are," says Barnes. "But—Dr. Cameron takes that above and beyond. Especially since last summer. It's been—kind of weird, actually. Sometimes I think it'd be better if she didn't try to keep everything so _professional_."

"What do you mean?" Chase seals his last sample bag and shines the flashlight around, trying to decide whether there's anything else that warrants swabbing.

"She had some kind of health scare last May," says Barnes, putting the hymnal back in its place and stuffing things into his bag. "Cancer. She never really talked about it. Just took a few weeks off, had surgery, and then we were off to the Congo. Like nothing had ever happened. Ever since then, though—that's when she started having trouble with headquarters."

Chase sucks in a breath, feeling dizzy, his thoughts traveling a mile a minute. He has a strange sense of déjà vu of that day in the clinic, his stepmother's voice on the phone telling him of his father's death. That Cameron would face cancer alone does not surprise him in the least, but he is sickened by the thought that his past actions have forced her into this place. That he is no longer in any sort of position to offer needed support.

"We're done here," says Chase, clearing his throat. "Let's get out before someone figures out we're poking around where we're not supposed to be."

* * *

All I want for Christmas is reviews! ;)


	11. Chapter 11

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Eleven

_9:01 A.M._

_November 25, 2012_

_Oceanview High School_

_Oceanview, OR_

By the time the sun is fully overhead, Chase feels as though he has never been more exhausted. In the past, he has been accustomed to bursts of intensity in his work, any given case liable to keep them at the hospital round the clock for a few days. But the grueling marathon of this investigation is different; he cannot recall the last time he felt able to think properly, unhindered by sleep deprivation and the sheer pressure of crisis.

He and Barnes have been here since the early morning, stopping back at the hotel only long enough to shower in an attempt to decontaminate after setting foot in the church. Hours ago, they both began this round of tests with bated breath, painfully aware of the potential for disaster if it should turn out that this strain of the virus is capable of surviving on non-living surfaces. That would constitute an outbreak which would be practically uncontainable, one which could sweep unhindered across the world in a devastating pandemic.

But so far the tests have all been negative, a half-dozen culture plates lined with miniscule wells and laden with purified material from the samples. It has taken the sequencing machine several hours to run the plates, but as its monitor displays the last of the results, Chase sees nothing suspicious.

Barnes has fallen asleep waiting, head resting on his arms on the surface of the high school's lab table. Chase does not bother to wake him, watching the lines of the results graph appear on the screen and thinking about the things he has learned during the night. His focus is so complete that he does not hear the door to the lab open, is entirely unaware of Cameron's footsteps until she is standing behind him.

"Working hard?" she asks, in a tone which tells Chase she already knows enough to be upset.

"Just—running some tests," he answers lamely, feeling tongue-tied, his throat tight with the grit of exhaustion.

"On what?" asks Cameron, crossing her arms. She is wearing her crisp white labcoat again, her hair and makeup meticulously in place. A perfect façade of unmarred professionalism, even in the midst of a national crisis. "New samples that magically appeared? Did they grow in the petri dishes overnight? Because that would _definitely_ be a novel organism if it can manifest out of thin air."

"They're from the church," Chase answers simply. There is absolutely no point in lying; she will have to be told eventually, and it will only do more damage if he is not straight with her from the beginning. At the other counter, Barnes has awoken and is blinking at them groggily, as though he is not sure how to react. Cameron appears completely unaware of his presence.

"That's funny," she shoots back, continuing her ploy of icy questioning, though she has clearly already surmised what has really happened here. "Because I don't remember the police department calling to say we were cleared to go in there. Did they come and get you after I went to bed? That's impressive service, working twenty-four hours just to notify us. I hadn't even gotten around to asking them."

"Cut the crap, Allison. We went there last night. I know you know that." Chase sighs, anticipating what is about to come, and feeling entirely too tired to keep up his end of the impending fight. He is in no mood for this sort of posturing, everything strangely surreal. It feels as though he is seeing her in a new light, an odd sort of throwback to the days when he was first being trained in medicine, learning to recognize features of the everyday as pathology. He finds himself more concerned with her health than her anger, observing every detail of her behavior as though she were his patient. He wonders now whether the fine lines around her eyes are from tiredness or pain, whether her hair is cut short now because months ago it had begun to fall out.

"We?" Cameron turns her attention to Barnes at last, raising her eyebrows. "Both of you?

"Dr. House was right," Barnes answers bravely. "We needed these samples. We need to know whether the virus can contaminate inorganic surfaces."

"So you were just following _House's_ instructions. Right." The suspicion is obvious in Cameron's tone as she looks back to Chase, apparently having dismissed Barnes's involvement as less worthy of her anger. "I have a hard time believing that one of my colleagues would just decide to follow _your_ boss's orders in violation of a warning from his own superiors. What did you do?"

"Right, I'm responsible for everything bad by default," Chase answers sourly. "What would you like to hear? That I blackmailed him? Tied him up and threw him over my shoulder? Threatened him with my magic doctor's wand? Take your pick." He ought to be hurt by this as by their last argument, ought to be outraged at her baseless accusations. And yet, knowing how much of a silent struggle the last few years must have been, he finds himself unable to feel anything other than deepest regret and a fierce protectiveness for her wellbeing.

"I want to know why my team suddenly decided it was okay to ignore my instructions and go walking into a biohazardous area without the proper protection." Cameron bites her lip, something in her demeanor changing; she is not truly angry over this breach of her authority, Chase realizes, but rather hurt by the perceived betrayal. "I know you heard what House said. I'm on probation with headquarters as it is. After this—I might as well head back to the hotel and start packing."

"No, you shouldn't," says Chase firmly. "Especially not now."

"We _do_ know you're on probation." Barnes gets to his feet, stripping off his gloves and dumping them into the nearest orange biohazard container. "That's why I told Dr. Chase we had to go to the church. So you wouldn't be put in that position. And now we've got your answers for you."

"You?" Cameron glances back and forth between the two of them, looking entirely taken aback. "This was _your_ idea?"

"Well—yeah," Barnes admits, sounding slightly less confident than a moment before. "We all like you, Boss Lady. None of us wants you in trouble."

Cameron is silent for a moment, visibly deciding whether or not to trust what she is being told. In the end, she has no choice, and they are all painfully aware of this fact.

"So what's the verdict, then?" she asks at last. "Is the church contaminated?"

"No," says Chase, glancing at the computer screen again to be sure. "No significant levels of live virus in any of the samples. And we took them from all over. Given the amount of time those people spent in the church—I'd say we should have seen contamination there, if we were going to see it anywhere."

Cameron nods once, looking visibly relieved though she does not acknowledge it. "We have to go back to Portland. Our alleged faith healer has regained consciousness. Woodson wants us to interview him. Barnes—double-check all of the samples, then make your call to Atlanta."

—

_11:21 A.M._

_November 25, 2012_

_Tillamook General Hospital_

_Portland, OR_

Woodson meets them in the small lobby, looking as though he might have somehow aged a decade in the course of the past day. This case is beginning to feel like an endless circle, like they are chasing their tails back and forth from Oceanview to Portland without unraveling any real part of this mystery.

"We got your message," says Cameron, falling into step beside Woodson as they head toward the quarantine area of the infectious disease ward without pause. "Our faith healer is awake?"

Woodson nods. "He identifies himself as Jereboam Smith. However, there's no legal record of any man by that name. I've got the police working on his real identity. Seems pretty unbalanced, if you ask me, and I don't think it's just the neurological effects of the virus. I wanted to get your take on it. This whole investigative thing—Not really my area of expertise. I'm used to judging microbes, not fanatical madmen."

"Well, Dr. Chase should feel right at home, seeing as how he works for one." Cameron glances sideways at him with an expression he can't quite read, but Chase has the distinct impression that this is a dig at House which does not extend to him personally.

"As long as you don't need me to interview any nuns," Chase answers.

They come to a stop in front of the glass containment area, which has grown even more impossibly crowded now. Chase immediately recognizes the man they are here to interview: he is one of the few patients sitting up in bed with his eyes open, and he is staring straight at them. There is something magnetic in his gaze, and Chase finds that he cannot look away until the sound of Woodson's voice breaks his concentration.

"You two ready to get suited up?"

"You're not coming in with us?" asks Cameron, sounding surprised.

Woodson shakes his head. "As you can see, we're way beyond capacity here. I need to make some calls. See if I can find other places for these people to go."

Cameron nods once, and begins pulling on the components of a HazMat suit. Chase follows, feeling as though his motions are especially clumsy this morning. She is clearly accustomed to doing this, a practiced ease about her which seems to transcend the situation. He feels as though he is moving through molasses, his limbs too heavy and his eyes dry with exhaustion, up until the moment that he stumbles through the airlock behind her and enters the quarantine area.

"Mr. Smith," says Cameron, as they come to a stop beside his narrow hospital bed. Her voice is distorted through the thick protective suit, sounding very far away.

"You another doctor?" Smith's voice is gravelly, like the sound of very rough stones rubbing against one another. He is obviously terribly ill, yet there is still a strange charisma about him which has not been dulled by fever. A certain spark in his eyes, an energy which seems to hang about him like a mythical aura.

"We're with the CDC," says Cameron. "I'm Dr. Cameron. This is my partner, Dr. Chase. We'd like to ask you a few questions, see if you can help us figure out how you got sick."

"I'm glad you're here," says Smith, turning away his face momentarily to cough. It is a harsh, rasping sound, like sheets of fabric being torn apart. "Something really does need to be done."

"Done about what?" asks Chase, the echo of his voice in his own ears sending a crushing sense of claustrophobia through him.

"Well, this plague, of course," Smith answers confidently. His tone is slow, soothing despite the horrific sound of his voice from a swollen throat. "I presume you're here because you want to know what's causing it, is that correct?"

"Are you saying that you know how the virus is being spread?" asks Cameron sharply. "You do understand that you are now the subject of a criminal investigation, Mr. Smith? You've been endangering people's lives keeping them locked up in that church to die. Cooperating with us now is very important."

"No, no, there's been a terrible mistake. It's all right. I understand your confusion." Smith stops to cough again, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. "I was trying to protect these people. To pray for them to be spared from the evil that has brought this upon Oceanview."

"Evil?" Chase finds himself struggling to keep the incredulity out of his voice. He feels an odd thrill of anxiety; he is all too familiar with the dangers of this sort of religious radicalism.

"Oceanview has allowed itself to be invaded." Smith's whole demeanor changes with these words, as though they themselves are toxic, painful on his tongue. "_Contaminated_. Its virtues muddied by the continued allowance of a heretical sect in our midst."

"Mr. Smith, it's the twenty-first century," says Cameron. "Religious tolerance is not only the prevailing moral standard, it is protected by law."

"The _sinners'_ law!" Smith shouts, lurching forward in the bed only to fall back against the pillows when his muscles give out. "_Not_ God's law. _He_ is punishing the town of Oceanview for their failure to drive out the dark ones! Now no one will be spared, mark my words! It's too late for the town to be saved!"

* * *

Note: Viral surface contamination is assessed using real-time polymerase chain reaction (RT-PCR). If anyone's curious, there is a link on my profile to a discussion of how this protocol works. Results of investigations of Nipah outbreaks in South Asia have yielded contradictory results; some strains are capable of surface contamination, while others are not.

Feedback is always appreciated!


	12. Chapter 12

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Twelve

_11:11 A.M._

_November 26, 2012_

_Oceanview High School_

_Oceanview, OR_

"I've found our heretical sect!" Barnes bursts through the door of the teachers' lounge, all unbridled enthusiasm, abrasive like afternoon sunlight.

Chase looks up from the stack of books in front of him, glancing around the table at Hale and Cameron, whose expressions seem to convey that they share his aggravation at Barnes's obvious excitement. The three of them have spent the morning seated in this musty old room, poring over a seemingly-infinite pile of local newspapers and police reports, in search of any clues as to what Jereboam Smith is so upset about. This has seemed to Chase a waste of time, the hopeless pursuit of the delusions of a madman. And yet it has also seemed the best lead to follow, in fact the only direction which makes any sort of logical sense. Without further information, they might as well be running blind.

"You mean to say that they actually exist?" Hale's voice is saturated with his habitual disdain. Chase has already come to expect it from him, in spite of the fact that they have only been in the same room a handful of times since the start of this case.

"_You_ mean to say that you doubt the Reverend Loony's word?" Cameron mocks, though it is unclear whether she means it as playful sparring or an honest challenge. Their relationship remains elusive, impossible for Chase to read.

"They exist, and they're based right here in town!" Barnes comes bounding over to the table, nearly knocking over a chair in the process. He pauses between Chase and Cameron, spreading out the front page of a very old, very tattered newspaper titled _The Oceanview Dispatch_.

"'Local group takes unconventional approach to the future'," Chase reads, reciting the headline before looking back up at Barnes. "This article's three years old. You think it's relevant now?"

"The group's called Synchronicity," says Barnes, snatching the paper back excitedly. He has underlined portions of the article's text, and he runs his finger along them as he summarizes aloud. "They're a spiritually-based environmental group. Their ideology is based on the mythology of many ancient peoples, particularly the Mayans. Anyone here familiar with the Long Count calendar?"

"It was a cyclical calendar used by the Mayans and several other Mesoamerican tribes," says Hale, maintaining his tone of boredom. "It's based on counting days following a mythical creation date corresponding to August 11, 3114 before the current era."

"You certainly seem to know a lot about it," says Cameron, sounding surprised.

Hale shrugs, still avoiding eye contact with anyone. Instead he looks alternately at the floor and the ceiling, as though searching there for the strength to put up with what he clearly deems an unpleasant task. "I did my undergraduate degree in anthropology. Turns out it's a field that goes rather well with a career in public health."

"Well, care to enlighten us some more?" asks Barnes, clearly impressed. He pulls out a chair and sits in it, crossing his legs, foot bouncing excitedly as though he cannot bear to remain still in this moment of epiphany.

Hale makes a face which says that this is a great effort on his part before continuing. "According to the Mayan creation myth, the passage of thirteen cycles, as demarcated by the creation date, marks the beginning of the human world. The myth involves the placement of three stones on the primordial sea, and the lifting up of the sky in order to see the sun."

"And how is this relevant to our case?" asks Cameron. She has her notepad out again, but so far has not written anything on it, as though only half convinced that any of this information will be of use. "We're talking about an outbreak, not an archaeological dig. And even if this is the group Smith was referring to, what's to say that it should mean anything to us?"

"Keep going," Barnes urges Hale. He has the air of a man with a secret; clearly there is something he knows which he has not yet shared with the group. For the moment he is content to sit back, and watch the suspense build.

"The calendar is probably most famous for its alleged prediction of the apocalypse," says Hale, though he sounds much less certain now, as though he clearly doubts this part of the story himself and is simply indulging them. "The end of the Long Count calendar corresponds with a date next month. December 21st. Surely you have heard the rumors, the exploitation of the myth by the popular media."

"Well, yeah," Chase admits, feeling vaguely unsettled. He does not believe in this sort of prophecy, yet its mention in the context of recent happenings takes him back to being a Catholic child, waking from nightmares of apocalyptic storms and a sea of blood.

"But there's an alternate interpretation," says Barnes, once again assuming the main role in this discussion, as though this meeting might actually be an elaborately-choreographed performance. "There are those that think the ending of the calendar signifies not the end of the world, but rather a shift to a new state of existence. A change in our state of consciousness, if you will. That's what this Synchronicity group's based on. They believe that we need to transition into a state of unity with each other and with our planet, through a radical conservationist approach to our lifestyles."

"I'm familiar with the group," Hale confesses, though he seems oddly pained by this fact. "It's hard not to be, living in Portland. They've come to some notoriety in recent years with their stance on sustainable living. But again, I fail to see how this is at all relevant to our investigation. They are an environmentalist group. We are investigating an outbreak. If we want to get anywhere, I would remind you all that we should stop focusing on the human element, and spend more time considering things on a molecular biological level."

Cameron sighs. "I'm sorry, Harry, but in this case I'm inclined to agree. What makes you think this is the group Smith was talking about? What makes you think it's at all connected to the outbreak we're investigating?"

"Because," says Barnes, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Guess who the founder of the Synchronicity group is?"

"Who?" asks Cameron, indulging him tiredly.

"Mr. Creepy himself." Barnes holds up the article again, pointing to a figure in the picture. "Oliver Cunningham."

—

_12:37 P.M._

_November 26, 2012_

_Deep Sea Diner_

_Oceanview, OR_

"Why am I here?" asks Chase, as Cameron pulls the Jeep into a parking space. The vehicle feels too large in the diner's small lot, like a slow lumbering beast.

"What do you mean?" Cameron frowns, fiddling anxiously with her seatbelt. "You're here to help me with this interview. So you can report back to House. You know, the whole reason you're on the case?"

"But why now?" Chase presses. "Why, when all you want to do is prove my opinion wrong?" They have left Barnes reluctantly back at the high school with the assignment of further researching the Synchronicity group in the local press. It feels wrong for him to be here now in Barnes's place, when he so obviously failed to make the crucial observations during their first trip to the diner.

"Let's go," says Cameron simply, climbing out of the Jeep and slamming the door on Chase's next question.

He follows behind her quickly, feeling an odd sense of trepidation as they walk up to the door of the diner. The same little bell tinkles above their heads as they cross the threshold, echoing for several moments as though somehow filling a much larger space. The familiar scent of incense makes Chase's head swim momentarily, simultaneously musky and sweet. The diner is not as deserted this time, several tables occupied by groups of people leaning close to one another and talking in hushed voices. There is still no sign of any wait staff, and Chase feels uncertain of what to do next.

But Cameron simply keeps walking, all confidence this time. "Come on," she prompts over her shoulder, when she notices Chase is still standing near the door.

She makes her way back to the kitchen without so much as pausing again, pushing through the swinging door with large red text proclaiming 'Employees Only.' Cunningham is bent over the stove with a large skillet full of sizzling oil, steaming bright green Brussels sprouts. He freezes at the sound of the door, turning to look at them with a look like a startled animal.

"You can't come back here. Employees only," he snaps, quickly switching off the stove and covering the skillet as though afraid something might escape from it.

"We need to talk to you, Mr. Cunningham," says Cameron, unfazed by his defensiveness. "It's very important that you cooperate with the CDC's investigation of this outbreak."

"I already showed you everything I've got here," Cunningham answers, coming toward the kitchen doorway as though trying to herd them back out into the main dining area.

"I understand that." Cameron crosses her arms, not moving. "And we very much appreciate your showing us your garden. We're here about an environmentalist group you founded. Synchronicity. That name ring a bell?" There's something aggressive in her posture, a power Chase has never seen in her before. As long as he has known her, she has struggled to overcome her own uncertainties, to have others respect her authority. All of those doubts seem absent now; standing before him is a women either fully confident or with nothing left to lose.

Cunningham shrugs, softening visibly. Suddenly he seems to change his mind about their presence in his kitchen, backing away from the door and beckoning them over to stand behind the stove. "You've come here to ask about my work?"

"Yes," says Chase, speaking up for the first time since arriving here. "What exactly is it that you do?"

"We promote sustainable living," says Cunningham. "It's quite simple, really. The techniques we discussed last time? The use of composting, organic farming, and the like. A lifestyle we have all been aware of for years, but conveniently chosen to ignore. It is our mission to educate the public on these ideals. To encourage them to adopt a conservationist standpoint. And to make them familiar with the coming catastrophe should they choose to continue ignoring the destruction of our precious planet."

"And what kind of catastrophe would that be?" asks Cameron. "Have you been threatening people if they don't choose to adopt your beliefs?"

"Absolutely not!" Cunningham exclaims, loud enough to be heard throughout the diner. "Climate change should be enough of a visible threat by itself. The omens and portents are all there, provided to us by nature herself. All we have to do is awaken people from their state of perpetual denial!"

"That sounds noble," says Chase. He is immediately suspicious, hearing in his mind House's voice. He would say that anyone so intent on doing public good must be hiding something more sinister. "Can you think of any way in which your work might be connected to the outbreak we're investigating?"

Cunningham frowns, and is silent for a moment. "Well, I could certainly see why people who fill their bodies up with processed toxins would be liable to get sick."

Cameron nods once, tersely. "And what about December 21st? The so-called apocalypse? Would you and your group know anything about that?"

Cunningham laughs, a harsh, barking sound. "Nothing but a bunch of pop-culture crap, if you ask me. The end of our planet might be imminent, but I doubt if we could put an exact date on it. Sure is a good motivator for my group's publicity, though. Guess we'll have to find something new after next month's over."

Cameron regards him for another tense, silent moment before nodding, apparently satisfied. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Cunningham. I think that's all we need for now."

They make their way back out to the Jeep, and most of the distance back to the high school in silence. Cameron seems unusually pensive, clearly troubled though Chase cannot tell why.

"So, you tell me," he says, glancing out at the road. "Did we learn anything important there?"

Cameron sighs heavily, parking in front of the school. "I don't know. And I'm not going to make any assumptions this time. We need more context. I need to understand how this fits."

"But you think it does? That it is related?" Chase follows her out of the Jeep, noticing that the rental sedan Barnes has been driving is gone. It is only the middle of the afternoon, but he does not dwell on this observation, assuming they must have left to run some sort of errand.

"I don't know," Cameron repeats, an edge of frustration creeping into her voice as they make their way down the hall toward the lab. "It doesn't make sense. But if it's not connected—then we have absolutely _nothing_ to go on here. And we can't just sit back and wait for more people to get sick."

Something is terribly wrong. Chase senses it as soon as they turn the corner onto the science wing. The door to the lab is hanging open, though there are no lights on and no signs of anyone else in the building. They have left this room locked for as long as Chase has been on the case, to protect the potential biohazards stored there. He is instantly certain that neither Barnes nor Hale would be careless enough to leave the door open and unattended.

Cameron quickens her step, and it is her harsh intake of breath that first confirms Chase's fears as he comes to stand behind her in the doorway. The lab looks as though a whirlwind has torn through it, all horizontal surfaces swept clear, a sea of broken glass and mangled delicate equipment covering the floor. At the far end of the room, the specimen freezer is alarming shrilly, its door swinging on its hinges and a mist of cold air spilling into the room. A multitude of small, black, bat corpses cover the tile in front of it, desecrated bodies in the graveyard of science.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated! :)


	13. Chapter 13

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

_1:46 P.M._

_November 26, 2012_

_Oceanview High School_

_Oceanview, OR_

"Stay here," Cameron breathes, her voice hushed as though she is afraid to be overheard.

"What—" Chase begins, but she is already off down the hallway, her back to him.

He does as instructed, though he turns away from the ransacked lab, watching Cameron as she pushes doors open, sticking her head into every room until she gets to the teachers' lounge at the end of the corridor. She pauses momentarily there, looking bewildered, then returns quickly to his side.

"There's no one here," she says, exhaling slowly.

It is a relief and deeply disconcerting all the same.

"Maybe there was some kind of accident," Chase suggests, though he knows better than to truly believe this possibility. The damage they are now looking at has come from nothing short of deliberate destruction or a major catastrophe of the sort he cannot imagine.

"Someone would have called me," says Cameron. She is shaking, he notices, though trying to hide it by keeping her arms crossed. But she looks inhumanly pale all the same, dark shadows of exhaustion framing her eyes.

"Okay." Chase takes a breath, trying to decide whether he needs to take the lead here. He does not want to compromise her authority, but she seems utterly at a loss as to how to handle this situation. "Do you want to call the police?"

"No," Cameron answers quickly, then seems to reconsider. "I mean—not yet, at least. The whole area will become a crime scene if we do that. We'll be locked out of our own facility for as long as it takes them to complete an investigation, and we'll have to put our own on hold. Who knows how many people could get sick or die in that time."

"But if we don't get the police involved, we won't know who did this," Chase points out, as gently as he can.

"Does it matter?" Cameron snaps, surprising him. It seems understandable that she would feel lost in this situation, uncertain or even outright afraid, having her work violated and destroyed in this way. But she has always sought justice, worked to find a rational explanation for all things random and unfair in life. That she would not want to pursue one now seems entirely unlike her.

"What do you mean?" Chase stammers, feeling his stomach twist. He is genuinely afraid for her now, feeling as though perhaps he has never truly known her at all. "How can it _not_ matter? Someone was in here, Allison. Someone came into this building, broke into the lab, and trashed all of our equipment, let alone our data. How can you possibly think that catching whoever did this isn't important?"

"It's not!" Cameron explodes, flushing as she raises her voice. "You've _clearly_ never worked in the field before if you think getting some kind of revenge on whoever did this is our first priority. What do you think happens when you're working in a warzone, and someone blows up your mobile clinic? Do you go on a suicide mission running after them? No. You pick up the pieces, and you start treating people again as soon as possible."

"But this isn't a warzone!" Chase presses. "And we're not directly responsible for treating patients. Our job is to find out how this outbreak is being spread. And I think that involves knowing who's been in our lab with our samples. We need to call the police."

Cameron is quiet for a long moment, looking defeated. When she speaks again, there is a noticeable change in her demeanor; she is letting him see beyond one layer of the façade, though how far he cannot be sure. "And then what, Robert? Say we call them. They come here, lock us out, go through all of our materials again. Find your handiwork from the church. The whole thing becomes a big investigation. It gets reported back to headquarters, written up in the local paper. The whole international world finds out exactly how bad this outbreak is. How little we've gotten done. Do you really think we'll still be on the case, after that?"

Chase is silent, unable to counter her train of thought here. Even if she is being irrationally paranoid, the risk of the scenario she has just described coming true is too great to take. So far, all of their tests have been negative; there is no risk of the virus being spread by this attack on the lab, at least.

"Whoever did this wanted to impede our investigation," Cameron says, when he doesn't answer. "If we go to the police, we'll be walking straight into that trap."

"All right," Chase agrees at last. "So what do we do now?"

"We clean up," says Cameron, seeming to regain some modicum of composure as she surveys the damage anew from the perspective of action. "Salvage what we can. Make sure anything potentially dangerous is contained. I think I'm doubly glad we haven't had any positive samples so far, or we'd have to treat the whole lab like it was contaminated with virus."

Cameron doesn't wait for him to respond, simply steps forward into the rubble and retrieves a box of gloves which has been thrown to the floor. She pulls on her own pair deftly, then hands it off to Chase. He feels clumsy as he did with the suit, trailing behind her and trying to get his bearings. The damage is so complete in some cases that it is hard to tell what the shards of glass and plastic have come from, let alone whether anything can be saved.

Chase pulls over the trash can and begins sweeping larger pieces of debris into it. There is a great deal of broken glassware; whoever has been in the lab went so far as to open all of the cabinets, knocking everything from the shelves onto the floor regardless of the fact that the majority of it has not been used in their tests. He has spent plenty of time doing lab work over the years, indulging House's perpetual distrust of the hospital's technicians. Yet he feels as though he is standing in unfamiliar territory now, struggling to identify the pieces of things that look entirely alien when taken out of their usual orderly context.

"I have backups of all the data," says Cameron, her voice slightly muffled as she leans into the freezer, adjusting settings. The alarm stops abruptly, its sudden absence making the silence in the building seem eerie. "Most people would call it paranoia, but I've gotten in the habit of always keeping a copy with me. When you're working in the middle of nowhere from a mobile lab, it's too easy to have things walk off."

"That's good," says Chase absently. She is talking to comfort herself, he can tell, to keep her thoughts centered on productivity. It's a coping mechanism he's seen her use many times before, and confirms to him yet again that she is terribly upset by this latest unpleasant surprise.

Cameron shuts the freezer door with a snap, then stoops to begin picking up the limp black bat carcasses. Chase watches her, momentarily pausing in his own activity. She pulls a large red biohazard bag from a box that has not been trashed, and lifts the dead bats into it one by one, by the tips of their wings. The bats have already been necropsied, dissected in an attempt to pinpoint the source of the infection. Now, their bodies droop at grotesquely unnatural angles. There is a faint odor of formalin, unmistakable in its sickly sweetness.

Shaking himself, Chase turns back to his task, collecting the cracked pieces of half a dozen plastic cell culture flasks. In the corner, a faint glimmer catches his eye. There, the computer monitor which was once attached to several diagnostic machines lies with its wiring exposed, sparks dancing as a thin plume of smoke begins rising. Chase catches his breath and quickly pulls the plug, watching carefully to make sure that is the end of things.

His attention is still on the clearing smoke when he hears Cameron's cry of pain from across the room. Chase straightens instantly, alarmed. She is still standing next to the freezer, looking shocked, and holding her right wrist. There is a shard of glass in her palm, he realizes as he comes closer, blood quickly seeping through her torn glove. It is a bad cut, he can already tell, and a more worrisome exposure besides.

"I thought there was something under the refrigerator," she says, sounding stunned. "Didn't see the glass." She pulls the shard out of her own hand and strips off the glove before Chase can say anything. She must be aware of the danger that smaller shards will be left in the cut, has treated dozens of injuries like this one in the past.

"That's going to need stitches," says Chase, getting a better look at it. Instinctively, he takes hold of her wrist, guiding her toward the lab's sink with his other hand on her shoulder. The water runs bright red down the stainless steel basin as she rinses the cut, wincing at the sensation.

"It'll be fine," Cameron answers firmly. But she is shaking badly, worse than before, and clearly trying to hide her pain from him.

"It is not fine," Chase insists. "You and I both know that. I'm taking you to the hospital. You need stitches. More than that, you need to get a tetanus booster and maybe a rabies vaccine. Just because we know the bats aren't carrying Nipah—"

"I've had plenty of tetanus boosters," Cameron interrupts. "And a rabies shot a few months ago. I got attacked by a stray dog while we were out surveying. The hospital is a two hour drive, not to mention the time I'll lose getting treated. And then headquarters would have to know, we'd have to tell them how it happened." She sounds strangely vulnerable, as though she might cry.

"Either way, that cut needs stitches." Chase sighs, feeling helpless. He wants more than anything to be able to support her through this crisis. "The last thing you want is for it to get infected."

Cameron takes a shaky breath. "Fine. Then you can do it. I have supplies at the hotel." She flexes her hand experimentally, hissing softly. "I'd do it myself if it was my other hand."

—

_2:52 P.M._

_November 26, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

Cameron's bathroom looks like a miniature pharmacy. The sink top is lined with prescription bottles and first aid supplies, more than he thinks he has ever seen before outside of a permanent residence. She has sent him in here to fetch the supplies to stitch her hand, but she is not watching, and he cannot resist the urge to look at the labels on the bottles. The dates and names of the prescribing doctors are varied, and most of the medications appear to be the type used as prophylactics while working in areas with serious endemic diseases.

But as he works his way down the row, two things stand out: prescription-strength calcium supplements, and a mostly-empty bottle of Paxil with a very recent date. He sucks in a breath at this, knowing how difficult it would be for Cameron to admit to needing antidepressants, let alone go through with having a prescription filled and sticking to it. It has always been difficult for her to accept help; she prefers to suffer in solitude, burying herself in her work. But this time it has not been enough, he thinks, quickly making note of the prescribing doctor's name.

"Chase?" Cameron calls from the other room, and he realizes he has taken too long.

Quickly gathering up the suture supplies, Chase moves back out to where she is sitting on the bed, her hand resting on a paper towel and tinged yellow with antiseptic. Placing the things on the nightstand, he kneels in front of her and examines the cut again. It is deep and has jagged edges, though there does not appear to be any more glass in the wound. Taking a breath, Chase uncaps the syringe of novocaine, waiting for her nod before injecting it into her palm. Cameron flinches, but says nothing.

"You have a lot of meds in the bathroom," says Chase, placing the empty syringe back on the nightstand. It will take several minutes for the anesthetic to set in well enough for him to suture the cut. "Most people don't keep Ribavirin and anesthetics in their first aid kit."

"_Most_ people don't go running all over the world in search of disease," Cameron answers, smiling a little, wryly. "I like to be prepared."

"So now I know you've been sliced by a piece of renegade glass, bitten by a stray dog, and that you spent your summer in the jungle," Chase teases gently. "Any other war stories you'd like to share? I'm starting to think you're a super hero or something."

Cameron laughs, rolling her eyes, and Chase is struck by how long it has been since he's seen her look even remotely happy. He thinks again of the pills in the bathroom, and knows he will have to confront her.

"I think you can go ahead," she answers quietly, flexing her hand experimentally.

Chase nods and begins stitching slowly, carefully, feeling oddly comforted by the familiarity of the work. Surgery has always been immensely satisfying to him in this way; nothing parallels the feeling of changing a person's life by fixing simple physical damage. A few minute, precision movements that can alter a lifetime.

"You said you've never gotten sick on a case," says Chase, glad of the excuse to avoid her eyes now. "Sounds like you've been pretty lucky with your health the past few years, then?" He isn't entirely sure why he is hoping she might confide in him now, when she has been so distrustful all along, and yet he cannot bring himself to shatter the odd intimacy of this moment by asking directly.

Cameron shrugs, brushing off the question without conviction. "Guess so."

Carefully, Chase ties off and clips the suture, surveying his work. The cut is neatly closed now, appearing much more superficial than before, a minor injury which will now be able to heal without incident. He feels an odd and overpowering sense of emotion as he looks up at her again; it has been a long time since she has allowed him this close, and he misses her immensely.

"Think you're done," Chase whispers.

Slowly, he takes her injured hand in his and raises it to his lips, kissing the back of it lightly. Cameron inhales audibly, but does not pull away.

"Allison," Chase breathes, knowing that he has to chance acting now, or risk losing any opportunity. "Barnes told me you had cancer. I—need to know if you're okay."

The shift is instant. Cameron tenses, getting to her feet so quickly that Chase nearly loses his balance. Her defenses are up in full force once again; he can already tell there will be no answer to this question forthcoming.

"I don't think that's any of your business," she answers icily, gathering up the suture supplies in a rush. "You gave up your right to know about my personal life when you decided that our marriage wasn't worth your honesty. I am going back to the lab now. I suggest you go back to your room."

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated! :)


	14. Chapter 14

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

_11:10 P.M._

_November 26, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase sits on the bed in his too-quiet motel room and listens to his cell phone ring. It is on the table by the window, but he cannot muster the energy to go and get it.

If it were Barnes or Cameron calling, he reasons, they would try his room phone or simply come to his door. It might be House, but he especially does not feel capable of facing that conversation at the moment. The niggling voice in the back of his mind tells him it is unprofessional and perhaps a little dangerous to avoid an opportunity to analyze what has just happened. But at the same time, he is unsure which pieces of information he is allowed to share regarding the latest developments. Furthermore, he knows Cameron is feeling vulnerable about the damage done to the lab, and he does not trust House to have any sort of empathy for her, to respect the fragility of her situation and not go digging deeper to satisfy his own curiosity.

A few moments after the first set of rings, the phone begins again, a second call from whomever was trying to reach him before. Chase leans back against the bed's stiff headboard, trying to stretch the tension out of his shoulders. His mind has been racing since the afternoon, struggling to make sense of everything they have learned. His gut instincts tell him that somehow both Smith and Cunningham have a role to play in this case, whether they are currently aware of it or not. He has learned from the hundreds of patients he has treated while working for House that any sort of connection, however elusive, is rarely a coincidence. And yet he cannot work out how either of them could be responsible for the spread of the virus, how any person could have that kind of power when they have found no evidence of any sort of disease transmission beyond the usual routes. The destruction of the lab bothers him immensely as well, seeming to suggest that there is something far more sinister at work here, something beyond a vengeful act of nature.

And then there are the pills in Cameron's bathroom, the vague mention of cancer from Barnes. These things disturb him more than anything else; three years since their marriage ended, and he still cares more deeply for her wellbeing than for the threat to global health that is rapidly emerging before their eyes. This knowledge lends a medical explanation to the profound changes he has already observed in her. In this way, it is somehow comforting, and yet simultaneously a terrible confirmation of his worst fears. He knows that the failure of their marriage is unlikely to have caused a disease as indiscriminate as cancer, but she would not have had to face it alone had they still been together.

When the phone begins ringing a third time, Chase resigns himself to the fact that he needs to answer it. The number is from Princeton-Plainsboro, he realizes as he glances at the screen, but it is not one of the hospital extensions he recognizes.

"Hello?" Chase carries the phone back to the bed, sitting heavily. He half expects it to be House, sneaking into one of the departmental lounges, or the lab, or Cuddy's office.

"So I guess you weren't actually listening when we talked about you calling more often." Mandy's voice from the other end of the line is startling, sending hot guilt burning through the pit of his stomach.

Chase has not thought about her in days, he realizes, distracted by the immediacy of the case and far too many memories. Now, hearing her voice tinny and foreign as the phone carries it thousands of miles, everything seems suddenly crystal clear, as though the fog which has seemed to engulf his life for the past few years has at last been lifted.

"I'm sorry," says Chase, taking a breath. The apology sounds empty on his lips, insincere and trite. He has used up the power of these words in their relationship; it has never been enough, and now it is too late.

"Right," Mandy sniffs, clearly uninterested in any sort of reconciliation. "That would be why you haven't called me a single time since you left. Why you were so eager to just run off to the opposite coast indefinitely. Why you have yet to say _anything_ when I've told you I love you. Because you're really _sorry_."

Chase takes a shaky breath, feeling an unexpected wave of emotion tightening his throat. Her words now echo a forgotten memory, the sounds of a fight drifting through closed doors in his childhood home. Now, he has the devastating sense that he has become his father's ghost, unable ever to care enough, to commit entirely. He has spent the past three years effectively alienating everyone who was once close to him.

"I _am_ sorry," Chase answers quietly. "I never—meant for you to get hurt." It feels like a phrase he has spoken a thousand times before; he is perpetually disappointing people as his own father once did him. These are the words he should have spoken to Cameron years ago, but was unable then to find.

"Hurt?" Mandy repeats, clearly tearful now, even across the phone. If she was not calling with the intention of ending their relationship, she certainly anticipates that it is about to happen now. "It's a little late for that, don't you think? You don't get to treat me like crap, then expect it to all be forgiven just because you didn't _intend_ for me to get upset."

"I know," says Chase. "I don't—expect you to forgive me. I expect that you'll be really angry. Probably hate me. That's okay, I'm sure I deserve it. I just—wish you hadn't gotten caught up in all this."

"And what is 'this'?" Mandy demands, breathing audibly now. Chase wonders where she is in the hospital, and hopes for her sake that it is somewhere private. "The juvenile mess you call your personal life? Honestly, Robert, I think you might be the most selfish person I've ever met. I should have listened when everyone tried to warn me about you."

"I'm sorry," Chase repeats, feeling completely powerless. She is entirely correct, he thinks; the person he has allowed himself to become is repugnant in every way, and he has blinded himself to the transformation, content to become dishonorable in an escape from misery. "I thought—I was ready to move on. That I could have something real with you. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to pay for my mistake."

Mandy snorts, loudly. "Right. Don't worry, Dr. Chase. We're done. You can go back to your womanizing guilt-free."

"Mandy—" Chase starts, but the phone line goes dead before he's had a chance to say anything more. For a moment he simply stares at the phone, debating the merit of a call back, but he senses that this will only do further harm. All he can do now is accept responsibility for the hurt he has caused.

Angrily, Chase throws his phone down, missing the bed and watching it bounce across the carpeted floor. The back of it pops out, battery coming loose and skidding until it hits the wall. Sighing, he sits on the bed again, and rests his head in his hands, not bothering to retrieve the pieces. He grinds his thumbs into his temples, watching the nebulous clouds of colors on the backs of his eyelids. It feels as though the world has come to a standstill, the glass façade he has so carefully built up around himself shattered in an instant. He cannot go back to wishful ignorance, can no longer bury the truth of his mistakes beneath endless drunken nights and superficial intimacy.

He cannot tell how much time has passed when his thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door, fast and hard, insistent. It goes on for a moment before Chase drags himself to his feet, blinking away the bleariness before looking through the peephole. Cameron is standing there, clearly agitated, hugging herself and looking down the hallway as though afraid to be seen.

"What's up?" asks Chase, opening the door and stepping back to let her in.

"Close the door," Cameron orders. She takes a shaky breath as she watches it swing shut, clearly trying to relax. "I tried calling your cell. It's going straight to voicemail."

"Oh," Chase stammers. It has not occurred to him in the aftermath of Mandy's call that others might be trying to reach him. "Yeah, it's—" He shrugs, pointing helplessly toward the pieces of it, still on the floor in the corner.

Cameron raises her eyebrows. "Call from someone you didn't want to talk to?"

Chase pauses for a moment, loath to tell her what has happened, but knowing that honesty is his only choice now if he wants to reclaim anything of the past. "That—girlfriend Foreman told you about. Ex now."

Cameron regards him in silence for a moment, puzzlement furrowing her brow. "She called to break up with you just now?" Something hardens in her face, then. "Well, I guess that's what happens when you put on the inscrutable act long enough. Thought you would've learned that by now."

"Yeah, I get it," Chase snaps, still feeling strangely raw, as though a scab has been ripped off the surface of his life. "I messed up with her. I messed up with you. I deserve to die alone and miserable."

"Oh, quit the pity party," Cameron interrupts, surprising him. He is accustomed to her anger and her aloofness both, but this is the first he has been met by contempt. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?"

"Why did you come here?" Chase demands angrily, stung despite the fact that he is forced to acknowledge the truth of her words. "If you don't want anything to do with me, then why are you here? Come to gloat?"

"No," Cameron answers forcefully. She casts a look around the room, as though halfheartedly searching for an excuse, then sighs heavily. "This afternoon, I got a call from Martha Cohen, my boss in Atlanta. She wanted an inventory of the equipment that was destroyed."

"I thought you weren't going to tell her," says Chase, confused.

"That's the point." Cameron crosses her arms again. "I didn't. But I did find out that reports of the incident were on the local news tonight. Not to mention the internet."

"So you think—what?" asks Chase, still trying to piece things together in his mind. "That Barnes or Hale called and reported you?"

"I don't know." Cameron paces across the room, looking too restless to stand still. Quickly she stoops, retrieves the pieces of his cell phone and slides the battery back into place. "I think—that maybe whoever did this was the same person who tipped off the press. Maybe the point wasn't to destroy the lab. Maybe someone was looking for something."

"Like what?" Chase takes his phone back from her as she holds it out in her bandaged palm, turning it back on.

"I don't know!" Cameron repeats, pacing again. "There's been a reporter hanging around the hotel for days now. Word is starting to get out. This many cases—people want us to tell them something. Tell them we're making some kind of progress. Some kind of proof that we can still keep them safe."

"And why are you telling _me_ about it?" asks Chase. It seems to go against all of her convictions, fly in the face of her current opinion of him.

"Because—" Cameron pauses, biting her lip. "Somebody did this to discredit our investigation. _My_ investigation. I have no idea who that somebody was. But—I know that you were with me when it happened. So now—you're the only one I can really trust."

For a moment, Chase cannot find anything to stay, stunned silent by the profound irony of this situation. Since finding her again here in Oceanview, all he has wanted is to regain her trust. But now, he would gladly give it up again if it could free her of this sense of betrayal.

"Okay," Chase answers at last, trying to collect his bearings. "Okay. Just—tell me what you need."

"I got a call from the police today, too," says Cameron, running a hand through her hair. She looks more exhausted than he has ever seen her before, on the verge of losing her composure entirely. "Jereboam Smith is a runaway from Washington. He's a wanted man there. Domestic terrorism. Apparently he had a tiny church there, too. He was making explosives. Planning a mass suicide. Offering themselves up to god."

"So you think—what, that blaming the Synchronicity group was a ploy? A scapegoat?" Chase rubs his eyes again. "You think Smith has something to do with the outbreak?'

"I think that if he was prepared to blow up a church and all of his followers in order to act on his faith, he's more than capable of leading people into exactly the kind of contact that turns an anomalous case of a virus into an epidemic." Cameron goes to the window, rearranging the curtains before moving back across the room again

"And what do you think we should do about that?" asks Chase, gently catching her by the shoulders as she moves to pass him again. When she looks up at him, there is a raw, unmasked fear in her eyes.

"Smith has an ex-wife," says Cameron. "She lives about an hour south of here. I think you and I need to take a trip tomorrow morning."

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	15. Chapter 15

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

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Chapter Fifteen

_10:09 A.M._

_November 27, 2012_

_Oregon_

The road is narrow and serpentine, running along the edges of the mountains so that it seems as though they might plummet into the valley below at any moment. The Jeep feels even slower and more cumbersome than usual, plodding along toward their unknown destination. They are even more isolated now than on the road from Oceanview to Portland, and Chase feels a sense of awe at Cameron's boldness in coming out here. Watching her drive, he remembers her anxiety the first time House had sent them to search a patient's home, soon after she'd been hired. He has always admired her for her dedication, her passion. And yet now, he feels as though he is glimpsing a depth in her he has never before imagined.

"Why the CDC?" he asks, when they have been driving in silence for nearly an hour. He has been avoiding this conversation despite his curiosity, reluctant to chance a further confrontation after her reaction to his question the previous night. She has promised him her trust only as far as the case is concerned, but it still feels like an opening of sorts.

"What?" Cameron glances sideways at him, looking flustered as though he has broken her train of thought.

"You've told me _when_ you went to work for the EIS," Chase presses, gently. "Not why. I want to know."

"I told you," she answers evenly, "I wanted to do good. There's been so much time and energy invested in my medical training. I thought it was time to give something back."

A decade ago, when they'd first met, Chase would not have been surprised to hear this explanation from her. But now the words sound hackneyed and insincere, more of an obligatory response than anything else, and he finds himself imagining that she is repeating these lines from a government website or glossy brochure.

"I don't believe you." It is a risk, but one he knows he has to take if he wants anything deeper than platitudes from her. "I mean, maybe that _was_ what you told yourself when you took the job. But it's not the real reason."

"And how would you know?" Cameron challenges. But it is in its own way an invitation to continue the conversation, and Chase swallows a little thrill of adrenaline.

"Because I know you," Chase answers. "And yes, you care enormously about empathy and compassion in medicine, but not unconditionally. You always wished we could choose who got the most help. You could never separate your morals from the medicine. Are you telling me that you get to deny vaccines to war criminals? That when you go into a battle zone, you get to choose which side's refugees you save?"

Cameron tenses at this, no longer making eye contact. "No, of course not. It's our job to investigate global health threats. Not judge the people involved."

"And yet here we are going to question a fugitive's ex-wife," says Chase meaningfully.

Cameron sighs. "This is a little different than controlling an outbreak of an endemic disease that _happens_ to be exacerbated by conflict. This could be some form of biological domestic terrorism."

"But you see my point," Chase insists. He catches his breath instinctively as she steers the car around a particularly steep curve. The view of the valley below is stunning, even in the barrenness of winter. When she doesn't say anything, he continues. "So why did you take the job? Honestly."

For a moment he thinks Cameron is going to shut him out again, reach her breaking point and refuse him an answer. But instead she takes a slow breath, shaking her head. "I don't know. I was invited by a recruiter who knew I had worked for House. I guess—it seemed like a good opportunity to get away. There was so much I was trying to leave behind."

In a way the words feel like a blow; he knows all too well what she is not saying. That she has spent the past three years trying to forget him, to erase all traces of their relationship. And yet it gives him an odd sense of hope, knowing that it has not been so easy for her to move on after all. That the other side of the world was not yet far enough.

"Are you happy?" asks Chase. A part of him is hoping she will convince him that she is, admit that the bottle of antidepressants in her bathroom is just some sort of mistake, a needless stop-gap measure. But he knows that is not the truth. If he is honest with himself, there is a certain dark corner of his mind in which he cannot erase the longing to know that she really is as miserable as he has been.

"_You're_ not," Cameron answers instead, as though somehow able to know his thoughts. "New girlfriend every month? Partying every night? That was never what you wanted."

"And how would _you_ know?" Chase echoes, unable to keep the harsh defensiveness out of his voice. He is not proud of his behavior, never wanted her to know about it. He can only imagine where he must fall now on her personal moral spectrum.

"The lab is officially a crime scene now." She says instead, after several minutes of silence. It is a firm warning to drop the personal questions, at least for the moment.

"You called the police?" asks Chase, surprised, and also guiltily relieved. He realizes that he does not want to know her answer to his previous question. "I thought you weren't going to involve them."

"I didn't have much of a choice after the break-in was front page news this morning." Cameron turns off onto a winding side road. There are houses here, though they are spread far apart, long driveways crawling back into the dense tree line.

"Well, maybe they'll be able to tell us something," says Chase, though he is unconvinced himself. Once again he wants badly to help, but is unable to offer her anything of real value. For years he has justified his personal failings by the value of his medical skills, his ability to save people's lives even if he can never escape his own unhappiness. But now his microcosm of specialty seems to pale in comparison to the scope of global health, of the things he has only begun to see through the veil of this outbreak investigation.

"Maybe," says Cameron flatly, clearly unconvinced. Still, she doesn't scorn his optimism, naïve and superficial though it may be, and it seems like small progress.

Before he can say anything else, she turns into one of the winding driveways, following the coordinates provided by the GPS on the dashboard. Chase feels a wave of trepidation sweep through the pit of his stomach, his temples pounding with tension. The house at the top of the drive is old and weathered, with light blue paint that is faded and peeling, and there are shingles missing on the roof. They are utterly alone out here, his cell phone confirming his fears as he glances at the screen: no service. Should something happen at this house, there will be no help forthcoming.

"Did you tell anyone where we were going today?" asks Chase, as Cameron parks at the top of the drive.

Cameron nods, glancing at him sideways as she gathers her notebook and bag. "The rest of the team knows. Why?"

Chase shrugs, feeling a little foolish for his worry. "Don't you think it's a little remote out here?"

Cameron laughs, a harsh puff of bitter air. "Try working in places where there aren't roads or houses. Then tell me about remote."

Chase shivers in the breeze as they make their way up to the doorstep, feeling even more chilled than usual. His skin seems to ache in the cold. Cameron knocks on the door without hesitation, stepping back to wait. There is a long moment of silence, no response but the wind whistling in the tree tops. Chase is on the verge of concluding that no one is home when the door finally opens.

"Who are you?" The woman is heavyset with graying blonde hair, and she looks as weathered as the exterior of her house, her skin leathery with too many years of sun. Her voice is like sandpaper, and she smells of stale cigarettes. There is something off about her eyes; it is evident immediately, though Chase cannot pinpoint exactly what is so unnerving.

" Angela Chamberlain? We're with the Centers for Disease Control," says Cameron, still sounding perfectly calm. "I'm Dr. Cameron, and this is my partner, Dr. Chase."

"You're government people?" The woman makes no move to let them into her home, or to confirm or deny her identity. There is a clear air of confrontation in her stance, more than just the customary defensiveness Chase has come to expect when questioning a patient or family member. It seems as though she is expecting to be attacked directly. "What the hell do you want with me? I'm a god-fearing woman, no concern of yours."

But Cameron still remains impassive, refusing to rise to the bait. "Ms. Chamberlain, maybe you've heard about the viral outbreak that's happening right now in Oceanview? Seen it on the news?"

Chamberlain shakes her head forcefully. "No TV or radio. Don't need them."

"You don't need to know the news?" asks Chase, without thinking. His curiosity has gotten the better of him, but he cannot imagine blinding himself to the world in that way.

Cameron shoots him a warning look, but doesn't say anything.

"I know all I need to," Chamberlain answers firmly.

"May we come in?" asks Cameron, still maintaining her tone of gentle diplomacy. Chase wonders how many more difficult situations she has found herself in over the past two years, whether this might seem completely routine to her now.

"Fine." Chamberlain's tone is still hostile, but she steps back at last.

The inside of the house is frigid and smaller than it looks from the exterior, and there is a strange cloying smell which makes Chase's stomach turn. The main room is bare but for a small table in the middle, made from unfinished wood. In the small kitchen the appliances are covered in rust; Chase realizes that there are corners where he can see daylight through the cracks in the walls. The place seems scarcely habitable, though he reminds himself that he has rarely been outside of comfortable suburbs.

"Thank you," says Cameron warmly, though simply allowing them inside seems far from hospitable. "Ms. Chamberlain, I know this is difficult, but we need to ask you some questions about your ex-husband. He goes by the name Jereboam Smith?"

Chamberlain tenses; there is something wild in her, as though living out here has left her as untamed as the forest. "No idea where that rat bastard is. Can't help you."

"We're not asking you to help us find him," Cameron explains smoothly. "We're already in contact with him. But we were hoping you could tell us about the incident with his former congregation? In Washington?"

Chase isn't sure exactly what it is that grabs his attention. But he finds himself unable to concentrate, though he knows he is supposed to be here to help with the interview. Still, he can't shake the feeling that something is intensely wrong here, evil. Cameron's voice sounds far away as he wanders to the edge of the room, looking through the doorway.

"_Nothing_ happened," Chamberlain snaps, her voice rising. There is an edge bordering on hysteria in her voice; it seems clear that her anger is masking true terror. "He was a good man." It is a clear contradiction to her earlier attitude, and she says the words too quickly, as though they are a reflex response to a threat.

"Ms. Chamberlain, your ex-husband is wanted on a charge of domestic terrorism," says Cameron, as gently as she can. "We think he may be putting a lot of people's lives at risk. We're not here to judge you or your relationships. But it's extremely important that you tell us anything you can."

"My husband is no terrorist!" Chamberlain is yelling now, all pretenses of civility gone. "He saw through the manipulations of evil in this world, and the devil's government tried to hunt him down! I know you're here to do the same! Don't think I don't know your tricks!"

It is then that Chase realizes what he is seeing in the other room. He has been staring at the objects for several minutes now, distraction obscuring their identity. On a very large set of shelves are a multitude of books on the apocalypse. But it is the guns that alarm him, enough for a small arsenal. This woman is clearly unstable, consumed by bitterness and paranoia. He thinks again of how alone they are out here.

Cameron meets his eye wordlessly, as though somehow sensing his sudden panic. She glances at Chamberlain again, then takes a few steps in Chase's direction, meeting his eye to say that she has seen what he has discovered.

"Okay," she says quietly, soothingly. "It's okay. We're leaving now."

Chase has a momentary vision of how easy it would be for Chamberlain to stop them, to hold them both hostage here or kill them outright to protect herself from a perceived threat of betrayal. But instead she simply stands frozen, in stony silence as they walk out in a rush. Chase holds his breath as the old Jeep sputters to life, and doesn't release it until they are off around the bend.

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	16. Chapter 16

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

**_NOTE: In a few chapters, this story's rating will change to M. Please change filter settings accordingly._**

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Chapter Sixteen

_9:15 A.M._

_November 28, 2012_

_Oceanview High School_

_Oceanview, OR_

The clock on the wall is ticking far too loudly, and seems impossibly to be growing more intrusive, as though losing its patience as the minutes pass beyond the appointed start of their meeting. Chase sits at the corner of the long conference table in the teachers' lounge and tries to focus on anything other than the terrible pounding in his head. It is as though the ache of tension from the previous afternoon's trip has only intensified during his night of anxious dreams, interrupted only by moments of panicked awakening in which he'd struggled to separate the darkness around him from the twisted world of nightmare, only to be immediately plunged back in. He feels hungover, his head filled with cotton, stomach roiling dangerously, body stiff as he tries to coax it into alertness, though he has not been out to a bar in weeks.

The case is getting to him, he tells himself, while trying to remember how long he needs to wait before downing another dose of aspirin from the little travel vial in his pocket. The first swallow of pills has done absolutely nothing, and yet, conditioned by years of reliance on medicine to solve the problems of his profession, he is certain that the next will bring him much-desired relief.

The case is getting to them all, he amends silently, glancing around the table. Cameron is seated at the front of the room, her laptop open in front of her, the look in her eyes telling him that she sees nothing at the moment beyond whatever document she is currently reading. Barnes is on her other side, forever half-in and half-out of his seat, flipping through the pages of a glossy journal but fidgeting so much it seems impossible that he might actually be retaining any of the information.

They are waiting on Hale, who at last sweeps into the room nearly twenty minutes after the agreed-upon time. He lets the door slam behind him, and it bathes the room in a stale-scented breeze as it swings back and forth momentarily. Cameron looks up at last; a profound sense of unrest seems to have entered the room along with Hale's presence. The clock fades instantly once again into the background, its ability to draw focus superseded by the promise of coming confrontation.

"Nice of you to join us," Cameron says tartly, shutting the lid of her laptop with a crisp snap. "I thought I said we were meeting at nine."

"I'm sorry," Hale answers, in a tone which makes no effort at sincerity. He is not even attempting to mask his condescension today. "I was working on some of the survey data. Lost track of time. Although I do have to say I'm unsure what we hope to accomplish with yet another meeting. Our last few have hardly produced what I would consider worthwhile courses of action."

"That's not your decision to make," says Cameron, a clear note of warning in her voice. "We welcome the Portland field office's insight into regional and environmental variables, but this case is under EIS jurisdiction."

"And I was merely stating an observation," Hale retorts, "that so far the EIS team has failed to make any sort of headway in curtailing this outbreak."

"I don't think that's yours to judge either," Chase hears himself say, though the words sound very far off. This defense has come instinctively, but he regrets it at once, too tired and distracted to continue what he has begun. "Can we just get on with it? I think it's safe to say none of us actually wants to be having this conversation right now."

"I was trying to get to that," snaps Cameron, though it is unclear which of them is the intended target of her frustration.

"I want to be here!" says Barnes eagerly, immediately shrinking at the glare Hale shoots in his direction. "Sorry, Dr. Cameron. Please go ahead."

"Two days ago, I got a call from the police, informing me of Mr. Jereboam Smith's true identity," she begins, and it is only now that Chase realizes she has not yet shared this information with either of them. "He's wanted for attempted domestic terrorism in Washington. Dr. Chase and I tried to interview his ex-wife here in Oregon yesterday, and the results were highly disturbing."

Chase realizes after a moment of silence that she is looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue with a report of their trip to the house in the mountains. He has wanted to feel a part of her team from the start, has wished for this sort of working partnership. Yet now the words are strangely difficult to find; his thoughts feel paralyzed, and he swallows a wave of panic at the thought that something might be wrong beyond sheer exhaustion. Paranoia, he tells himself. Too much time spent considering worst-case scenarios.

"It was like—she'd been brainwashed, or something," he answers at last, painfully aware of everyone's eyes on him. "She kept insisting that he'd never done anything wrong, that he was a good man. But it was obvious that wasn't the truth. She got hysterical when Cameron questioned her. Kept repeating it, like it was a way of avoiding punishment."

"What do you think that means?" asks Barnes, looking profoundly troubled, but also confused. "I don't really do the whole _people_ thing. Just statistics, mostly."

"I think she's been abused," says Chase darkly. "Probably by Smith. I think it was some kind of post-traumatic response. He'd drilled it into her. Maybe he still does. She also had a huge library of books on the apocalypse. I wouldn't be surprised if they're still in contact somehow."

"And why, exactly, do you think this is relevant to us?" asks Hale. The note of boredom in his voice is like déjà vu; it strikes Chase that this has been his reaction to every suggestion they've made in a discussion of the case. He remains utterly unconvinced, unwilling to so much as consider the possibility that there is anything more at play here than a freak occurrence of nature, the rapidly-accelerated proliferation of this disease through simple viral evolution.

"Think about it," says Cameron. "He told us he thinks this outbreak is a punishment for the sins of the people in Oceanview. A plague brought upon the town by God, if you will. What if—Smith think _he's_ God? Or God's messenger, or—I don't know, I've never really understood intensely religious people."

"But you think _he_ might be spreading the virus," says Barnes, excitedly. "To punish the sinful in Oceanview."

"Yes." Cameron says nothing else for a moment, letting the weight of that possibility sit in the still air of the small room.

"Then what do we do about it?" asks Barnes, looking disturbed.

"I think, to start with, we convince the police to help us force all the members of Smith's church into involuntary quarantine," says Cameron. "Then see what happens with the spread of the outbreak."

"That's a _very_ serious accusation," says Hale ominously. "Smith may be a wanted man already, but you'll need a _hell_ of a lot of evidence to justify government action against a religious group."

"Then we'll get it," says Cameron stubbornly. "And we can start by interviewing the members of his congregation who _aren't_ in the hospital." She slides two sheets of paper across the table at them, listing names and addresses.

—

_1:35 P.M._

_November 28, 2012_

_Oceanview, OR_

"What is wrong with you?" asks Cameron, her voice colored unusually harsh by frustration. She has stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, not quite back to the Jeep, but as soon as they are safely out of earshot of the house they have just left.

They have been out since lunch time, searching through the winding back roads of Oceanview for the properties on the list. Smith's congregation is small, with fewer than two hundred members, and yet the residences have been deceptively hard to find. The GPS seems confused by the mountains, and the thick clouds which lumber low on the horizon over the white-capped ocean, leaving them stranded to find their own way around on streets which as often as not lack signs. There is a storm coming, and Chase feels oddly raw from the wind which has been whipping up, chilled to the bone despite the remnants of afternoon sun still breaking through the clouds.

"It's cold," says Chase, partly in answer to her question, and partly as a simple observation. He has always hated the chill, constantly misses the comparative warmth of Australia during the depth of New Jersey's winter. Yet this afternoon seems a new experience entirely; it is as though the exhaustion he'd felt in the conference room during the morning's meeting has wrapped icy fingers around his innermost being, leaving him able to focus on very little else. Worse yet, the change in weather seems to have intensified the throbbing in his head until it seems as though he can sense his own heartbeat in every vessel in his body, a synchrony of undulating pain.

Cameron narrows her eyes, obviously dissatisfied with this answer. "It's warmer than it was yesterday. And that's not what I meant. I might as well have been out here by myself the past two hours. You've barely said a word. In fact, I doubt you've even been paying attention. Or are you going to blame that on the weather too? Maybe you're actually cold-blooded, and you hibernate when the temperature drops too low."

"Sorry," Chase mutters, realizing with a start of alarm that she is correct. He has scarcely registered that so much time has passed, the morning seeming to slip into afternoon in the same haze that has carried over from his dreams the previous night.

"That's it?" Cameron's frown deepens, something in her face beginning to creep away from anger and toward concern. "This whole time, you've been trying to win my trust. Trying to get me to treat you like—a partner, involve you in the investigation as more than just a consultant. Now I ask you to come out here with me, and all you do is trail me like my shadow?"

Chase shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he closes the distance to the Jeep. She is absolutely right. Something is terribly wrong, he allows himself to realize at last. He has been working through exhaustion for the past ten days, slowed by it but not incapacitated like this afternoon. He has rarely been ill in his life, despite hours working in the ICU, the ER, or surgery. Yet now, his mind travels inevitably, instantly to the virus, to the twilit glassy-eyed look he'd seen on the dying patients in the hospital. That must be the way his face appears now, he thinks, judging by his own inability to focus on anything else.

But Cameron doesn't comment any further, simply unlocks the Jeep and climbs into the driver's side, making a few notes on the list and studying the next address. Chase follows suit numbly, though his thoughts are now racing, the murk in his mind at last burned away by the sudden certainty that he is in grave trouble. He ought to say something, he thinks, ought to tell Cameron to take him to the hospital, or at the very least find a way to separate himself from her.

He tries to think back, to remember the exact moment when these new symptoms began to emerge from the general discomfort of too many sleepless nights and far too much emotional turmoil. But he finds that he cannot make the distinction. In reality, he knows that it is too late anyway; if he has caught the virus and is feeling symptoms already, then surely the rest of the team has been exposed. He thinks immediately of the ruined lab, of the samples Cameron had been so certain were clean. And then he thinks further, of their midnight trip to the church, to Ellen Kearney's decaying home, to care for patients in the quarantine area at the hospital. It seems suddenly as though they have all been careless, have all been walking through fire on a daily basis while deluding themselves into thinking the necessary precautions have been provided.

Yet now, picturing one disaster scenario after the next, he finds himself unable to care about his own future, about the very real chance he could die from this disease. Instead he thinks only of the others he may have put in danger, of the feeling that he should never have come here, should never have allowed the path of his life to intersect with Cameron's once more. She had walked out, after all, to save herself in the only way she'd known how.

Now, she is pulling up to yet another house, still oblivious to the multitude of thoughts racing through his mind. Chase thinks frantically of something to say, and cannot find the words.

"Are you coming?" asks Cameron, impatient once again at his failure to respond.

"Maybe—you should go ahead without me," Chase says, lamely.

He expects her to respond in anger, but instead she is quiet then, concern once again overtaking frustration as she meets his eyes. She moves slowly, as though somehow hearing his thoughts, to lay her palm against his forehead. Chase knows instantly at the icy brush of her skin, the look of panic which darkens her face.

"You're burning up," she says, quietly, almost resigned and yet still urgent. "I'm taking you to Portland right now."

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	17. Chapter 17

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

_November 28, 2012_

_Tillamook General Hospital_

_Portland, OR_

There is a constant rush of air from the negative pressure seal. It feels like a storm wind, a sea gale; the longer Chase lies in the hard bed listening, the more it begins to sound like a large monster breathing. He cannot remember getting here, cannot recall anything of the silent, frantic drive, though if he tries he can picture the tension in Cameron's face, the white-knuckle grasp of her long fingers on the steering wheel, navigating them through the back roads and into this man-made wasteland of the clean-room.

He is utterly alone in here: the lights are out and there are no windows. That is odd, he thinks, unaccustomed to an isolation room without accommodation for close observation from the outside. Chase is struck yet again by the sense of being very far from home, trapped, abandoned, though he cannot truly say by whom. He has pushed everyone away on his own; there is no one left to betray or leave him. Now he is truly safe, and lonelier than ever.

Chase shivers violently beneath the thin sheet, already soaked through with his fever-sweat, and tries to curl up more tightly. His entire body seems to ache, as though every virus-invaded cell has begun to throb in unison, his nerves alight like a torturous Christmas tree. The cough builds up from the bottom of his lungs, slowly growing as he breathes slowly and shallowly in trepidation. He knows what is coming, has already been racked with a dozen similar spasms, and yet he tries to avoid it as long as possible, staying as absolutely still as he can. Finally, it breaks loose, like a beast trying to gut him from the inside. The blood started a few hours ago; now the sheets and white wall at the head of the bed are bathed in it, and Chase closes his eyes, fighting off memories of that day three years ago, monitors screaming and crimson pouring from another throat.

"Imminent respiratory arrest."

The voice comes as a shock, the first noise in the emptiness save for the hissing of the airlock and his own raspy cough. He has not heard anyone come in, knows that this particular circumstance is impossible, and yet the accent is unmistakable, crisp and brilliant, with just a touch of coldness.

Chase opens his eyes slowly, confronted with the specter of his father, no older or frailer, or any different than that day he'd appeared out of nowhere in the Diagnostics office.

"I'm hallucinating," says Chase, sitting up with considerable effort.

"Come to that conclusion on your own?" Rowan raises his eyebrows, the picture of skepticism. "Because if I remember correctly, your diagnostic skills were rather lacking."

"You're dead," says Chase, wondering how this can still be happening when he is so clearly aware of its impossibility. He thinks of the microbes eating his brain, bursting open cells as they multiply, spilling out into his blood to continue their deadly colonization. "Pretty sure it doesn't take a famous diagnostician to tell me I'm hallucinating if you're standing here."

"Always so defiant." Rowan crosses his arms and shakes his head, sadly, his disappointment all-encompassing. "Thought you might be glad to see me."

"You left me," says Chase bitterly. "You left me, and you died, and you never even told me you were sick."

"Like you would've known the difference," Rowan scoffs, throwing up his hands in the sort of elaborate gesture Chase remembers from the fights that came before the endless silence. "You're the one who ran away from your family. You could have taken care of your mother, but instead you ran away to the seminary. Then, when she died, you ran away to the other side of the world. You love to blame people, but did you ever stop running, Robert?"

"You taught me everyone was always gonna walk away," Chase answers, coughing painfully, fresh drops of bright red blood spattering against the colorless tiles.

"I did what I had to do," says Rowan. "_You_ were the one who took it above and beyond. Always did try so hard to please. Your tragedy was that it was in all the wrong ways."

"Why are you here?" Chase snaps at last, in complete exasperation. He is too tired for this, too sick, even if the hallucination is the product of his own diseased mind.

"You're dying," says Rowan, as though reciting the results of one of his acclaimed studies. No emotion, only facts. "I came to tell you. That's why I'm here. Don't you want to know what it's like? Having your lungs fail? Fighting for every breath, futilely, while you slowly drown in your own bodily fluids?"

And then the ground seems to lurch out from under him, as though the Earth's surface might have split beneath the wheels of the bed, sending him tumbling into the fiery abyss.

Chase wakes with a ragged gasp, blinking at the sterility of white lights in a monochrome room. It takes him a long, breathless moment to realize that the vision was a nightmare and not a hallucination after all, his father's words seeming to mock him still from the depths of his own mind. His bed is being wheeled away from the wall, he realizes, and looks up to see Cameron standing there, the lower half of her face obscured by the blue ridges of a standard N95 respirator mask.

"What're you doing?" asks Chase, lurching to sit up. The motion tears a fresh fit of coughing from his throat, and he is shocked not to see blood: only a cruel trick of nightmare vision, though a real enough possibility if his worst fears are true.

Cameron stops clumsily, obviously surprised to see him awake; the bed continues rolling unattended for a few slow inches before she catches the headrest, taking control of it again.

"Getting ready to move you. Quarantine space is at a premium right now, I know you know that." There is something odd in the sound of her voice; she is strangely cold, where he has only known empathy from her before. In spite of her propensity toward holding grudges, Cameron has always been prepared to give her utmost compassion in times of sickness. But if anything, she seems more distant now, eager to treat him as nothing more than an anonymous patient, or perhaps even less.

"You're gonna put me in the room with—everyone else?" Chase remembers in a rush the large isolation room, crammed full with beds the last time he saw it, claustrophobic and transparent as a display case, as though the patients are curiosities on show for the entertainment of the hospital's personnel. A veritable cesspool for the virus to breed.

"Yes," says Cameron simply, her voice carefully and uncharacteristically devoid of emotion, and then he sees that she is holding the respirator from a HazMat suit in her free hand, like a grotesque death mask, a harbinger of doom.

"I don't remember how I got here," Chase blurts, at once terrified and ashamed. The dream has left him deeply shaken, yet his father's condemnation pales in comparison to Cameron's indifference.

Cameron pauses, finally looking him in the eye. "You were running a fever. You fell asleep in the car on the way here. This is the isolation holding room in the ER. We were waiting on the tests, but they need the room, so we're going to go ahead and transfer you."

"Wait." Chase turns his face away for a moment, coughing hard, thoughts suddenly racing, an odd sense of déjà vu making his head swim. "You don't know that I have Nipah?"

Cameron gives him a look of pure contempt, the sort she only levels at anyone when she is afraid herself, on the defensive. "What else would it be, Robert? You know the symptoms. You know how you're feeling. And I know that's what you immediately thought when you started getting sick. Why you didn't tell me."

"But—You don't _know_," Chase repeats, fear warring with a stubborn shred of hope. "You haven't confirmed. You just said the test results aren't back yet."

"No, they're not," she admits flatly, then holds up the respirator again. "But they're just a formality at this point. And we need to move you. Now. There are more cases coming in."

"I'm not going anywhere," Chase protests, picturing himself in that room, surrounded by death and utter hopelessness. He remembers now his fear for the others who had been put into quarantine prematurely; their tests had all eventually come back positive for the virus, yet he cannot shake the thought that that sort of exposure would spell certain doom for anyone not already infected.

"That's not your choice anymore," says Cameron, placing the respirator on the bed beside him. "Put this on. You've already exposed enough people." She sounds impatient now, and Chase wonders distractedly whether this new heartlessness is the way she has learned to cope with the constant tragedy in her work.

"Is that what this is about?" asks Chase, angry now. "You think I hid this from you, so now you're just gonna shove me in that room as fast as you can, nevermind whether I actually have the virus? Is this your idea of revenge, Allison?"

"Yeah, it's completely personal," Cameron snaps, bitterness searing her voice. "I always make medical decisions based on my analysis of a person's character."

"You said it yourself!" Chase argues, fighting to sit up further. "You think I've already exposed too many people, so you want me to just lie back and let you throw me to the wolves!"

"Put on the mask!" Cameron demands, her voice rising now; obviously he has struck a nerve.

"Look me in the eye and tell me it's your honest medical opinion that I should be put into that quarantine room with all the other case patients before my tests have confirmed that I have the virus," says Chase, fighting to maintain any semblance of control. It feels like the ultimate betrayal, the depth of his loss in her trust and her friendship more painfully apparent now than ever before. There was a time when she would have fought for him, he knows, against protocol, even against pure solid logic. Now, it feels as though she is all too ready to be rid of him, a punishment for his repeated failure, his own personal purgatory.

"You have a virus," she answers, noticeably struggling to maintain a normal volume, to refrain from entirely falling apart. "You have a fast-moving severe virus which matches all the symptoms of Nipah. You have spent _weeks_ working with people who are infected. You broke into an infected area without the proper protection, and didn't use any sort of standard protocol to decontaminate yourself or your clothes afterward. Then, when you started getting sick, you kept it quiet. You didn't take any precautions to protect anyone around you. Just sat back and waited until you were too sick to hide it anymore. You've exposed the entire team, the hotel staff, god knows how many people that we've interviewed. Do you understand, Robert? We are here to contain this outbreak and to prevent further loss of life. Hundreds of people could die because you kept this secret."

Chase swallows past the tightness in his throat; for once he has no answer. Once again, he feels as though he is seeing himself through her eyes, the superficial confines of his world shattered. He has assumed that her anger was personal, an extension of the ever-present hurt between them. But now he sees the depth of her fear, her concern not only for her own friends and colleagues, but for the likelihood that this will derail all attempts to control the outbreak. He has not purposely kept anything from her, and yet he knows that she is correct, in a way: he has buried himself in denial about falling ill, allowing himself to pass off the first symptoms as sheer exhaustion. She is right to be disappointed in him, and this hurts worst of all.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, at last, and slips the respirator over his nose and mouth, sinking back against the mattress.

Chase closes his eyes as Cameron moves around the bed, making further preparations, and wills himself to sleep. He would welcome oblivion now, he thinks, rather than suffering for it to come.

He is unsure of how much time is passing, has almost coaxed himself back into unconsciousness when the door opens in a rush, making him jump as it bangs into the wall.

"Don't go anywhere!" Barnes's voice, full of urgent energy as ever.

"Harry, what the hell?" Cameron looks more lost than ever, the situation clearly out of her control as the door swings back and forth, airlock breached. "The door—"

"I rushed the tests," says Barnes, breathlessly. "I did them myself. You can't transfer him, he doesn't have Nipah."

"What?" Cameron looks aghast, paler than Chase has ever seen her. "That's not possible. He's obviously sick."

"I did the tests twice," says Barnes confidently. "He doesn't have Nipah. He has an early-season case of Influenza A."

"Fuck," breathes Cameron, and Chase can see the question in her eyes: how many lives have their assumptions already cost?

—

Feedback is always appreciated!


	18. Chapter 18

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

_**NOTE**_: This story is only a little over halfway finished, but I'm starting to consider whether or not I'd potentially go the route of a sequel. If you'd be interested, please let me know, or go vote in the poll posted on my profile.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

_9:54 P.M._

_November 28, 2012_

_Tillamook General Hospital_

_Portland, OR_

Afternoon stretches into evening and then nightfall, marked only by the lengthening of the shadows on the wall, the sky outside the window slowly turning a deep violet shot through with veins of orange and delicate pink. It has started snowing again, and Chase shivers simply watching the flakes fall. He has been sleeping on and off since being transferred to a private room, undisturbed except by the quickly-intensifying flu symptoms. The worsening cough still unnerves him, nightmares fresh in his mind despite Barnes's earlier assurance that he has nothing life-threatening. The sheets feel too thin; his entire body shakes convulsively with a cold that now seems to come impossibly from within. Fever, he knows, yet wishes irrationally for more blankets.

He dreams again of the quarantine room, this time filled with other sick bodies, as in reality. In the dreams, he finds himself utterly surrounded, yet abandoned all the same, betrayed by Cameron's blind determination and his own terrible luck. He wakes with a start, deeply shaken, only to repeat the cycle scarcely an hour later. He has just awoken for what feels like the hundredth time, and is staring listlessly at the congealed dinner tray on the side table when the door opens. Chase doesn't look up, assuming it's a nurse checking in, and wishing for nothing more than to find his way back into sleep. The shifting of weight on the bed surprises him, and he jumps at the brush of a hand against his back. He turns at last to find Cameron perched there, regarding him with an expression he can't read.

"How are you feeling?" she asks quietly, laying her hand against his forehead again, as she did earlier in the car, an oddly intimate gesture.

Chase pulls away after a moment, unsure of how to interpret the gesture, and afraid to become too invested. "Like crap."

Cameron smiles sympathetically. "That sounds about right. We're going to keep you here for a few days. Give you fluids and some antivirals. Hopefully we can at least shorten the duration of your sickness. And you won't be around the outbreak while your immune system's compromised."

"What're you doing here?" Chase asks at last. The thought of staying here in this hospital makes him cringe, but going back to the uncomfortable hotel is an even less desirable prospect, and he can't argue with Cameron's logic. He is uncertain whether he wants to see her right now, though he has spent the evening wishing he was not alone. Still, he can't shake the shame of their earlier fight, of the endless revelations of his own ignorance. Knowing that she is seeing him now, vulnerable in the most basic way, makes him ache for everything that has been lost between them.

Cameron shrugs, looking down to smooth a wrinkle in the sheets. "The nurse said you didn't eat anything at dinner. I brought you some tea."

Chase sits up slowly to accept the cup from her, feeling dizzy as though his head has been swept beneath the waves of the sea. The warmth of the paper liner is a relief against his skin, and he cradles it between his palms, breathing in the sweet-smelling steam though he doesn't yet have the appetite to drink.

"Thank you," he says quietly at last, taking a cautious sip. She's fixed the tea with milk and honey, his old habit which she'd always good-naturedly disdained as unhealthy.

"These too," says Cameron, handing him a small grocery bag, still not quite making eye contact. "In case you get hungry later."

Carefully, Chase dumps the contents onto the bed, unable to hide his smile when he sees several packets of peanut butter crackers. "You remembered."

"That was all you'd eat when you had the flu five years ago." Cameron sounds sad suddenly, remembering that part of their relationship when everything had still seemed new and precariously delicate. No years of resentments between them, no scars built on the bones of broken promises.

Chase nods, and when it's clear that he isn't going to eat them immediately, Cameron stacks the crackers on the bedside table. The silence stretches out between them, laden with a multitude of thoughts unspoken. She looks exhausted, the aftermath of panic lining her face. Suddenly Chase feels immensely guilty for being the one in this hospital bed, for the realization that he will now be unable to help her with anything. He has wanted all along to prove himself to her, to regain her trust through the merits of this investigation. Now he has failed utterly, neglecting his own health in an effort to best nature. She ought to go back to the hotel and sleep, he thinks, or perhaps even get a room in Portland for the night. It seems she has nothing further to say, and yet she has not moved from the edge of the bed.

"I could have killed you today," Cameron says at last, quietly. There's a resigned honesty in her voice that he has not heard in a very long time. Not since Princeton, that day the hospital had gone dark and still. _I did love you. Just not in a way that ever would have worked._

"But you didn't." Chase clears his throat, resisting the urge to reach for her hand. He wonders whether he ought to be angry at her, or at himself, for the depth of the mistake they have both almost made. For all of their downfalls over so many years. Yet all he feels now is profoundly lonely. He has been numbing these wounds with alcohol and the shallow imitation of intimacy. But now there is nothing to hide behind, no more excuses.

"Because you fought me," Cameron insists. "If you'd trusted my judgment—"

"Your judgment saves people's lives every day," Chase interrupts, unable to watch her torment herself. "So you were wrong today. Nothing happened. Everyone makes mistakes sometimes."

"I know that," Cameron answers, the note of frustration in her voice catching him by surprise. He'd thought she was simply questioning her own abilities, but now he wonders whether he's misinterpreted.

"Then—what is it?" Chase turns away momentarily, coughing into his elbow and wincing at a fresh wave of chills.

"It's just—Maybe sometimes I need you to fight with me," she admits quietly. "I'm sorry I've been trying to shut you out."

Chase swallows, painfully, almost afraid to hear what she is saying. He has been imagining a moment like this one for so long that now it feels as though it might be nothing more than a pleasant dream.

"I haven't exactly given you much reason to trust me," he offers, looking away again. He thinks again of Foreman's warning phone call, wondering exactly how much she knows of his behavior over the last several years.

"But I _do_ trust you," Cameron admits, surprising him. "Even when I don't want to. That's what scares me."

"Why?" asks Chase, honestly surprised. "I don't think I'd trust myself right now."

"I missed you," she says instead, shifting her weight against the edge of the mattress as though unsure of whether she ought to be planning an escape.

"You ran away," says Chase. "Twice. And I can't blame you for it."

"You're too hard on yourself," Cameron argues, but he isn't sure whether the words are sincere or merely an obligation. "I was too hard on you."

Chase turns away again, coughing, almost glad of the distraction. His head is spinning now with sickness, and with confusion at this sudden change in her. He wants to believe everything she is saying, longs for it with an aching hollow desperation. And yet the possibilities frighten him; he remembers again the fresh wound of coming home alone after signing the divorce papers, after spending one final hour with her in his arms. He has given her no reason to change.

"It's late," he says at last, glancing half-heartedly toward the hospital-issue clock on the wall. "You should get going. It's a long drive back to Oceanview."

"I'm staying here tonight." It isn't a question; her mind is already completely made up.

Chase bites his lip, swallowing a fresh wave of adrenaline. "You shouldn't. I'll get you sick. You need to be able to work on the case."

But she only smiles again, seeming at last completely committed to whatever choice it is that she's made. There's a softness about her this night which he'd feared had been lost entirely.

"Don't worry about it," says Cameron, reaching for his hand at last. Her skin feels pleasantly cool against his, and he finds himself lacing their fingers instinctively. "Unlike you, I got a flu shot early this season."

"That doesn't mean you're protected," Chase protests. "It's just the beginning of flu season. I could have a different strain. One that wasn't covered by the shot. It's bad enough that I can't help with the case right now. I don't want to put you at risk too."

"You really think that didn't occur to me, working in epidemiology?" Cameron's smile widens, as though she is in on some private joke from which he is excluded. "I tested my serum against the viral isolates from your blood. I have the right antibodies, so you can't get me sick."

"You—what?" Chase stammers, taken aback by the certainty of her response. Wrapped up in years of bitterness, countless nights spent trying to bury all the reasons why he'd wanted to spend his life with her, he has nearly allowed himself to forget the depth of her kindness, the compassion he'd first fallen in love with all those years ago. That she has taken time away from the continuing crisis in Oceanview to come here and be with him is breathtaking. He has largely kept himself a stranger to the care of others, has always been surprised to find her there.

"It was the only way I could get Woodson to agree to letting me stay after visiting hours," she answers, looking a little sheepish.

"But—why would you do that?" He cannot stop himself from asking, is unable simply to accept the gesture, though he is already profoundly grateful.

Cameron squeezes his hand lightly, something shifting in her eyes. "Nobody should have to be alone in the hospital."

"I'm sorry," Chase whispers, suddenly understanding the unspoken meaning of her answer. "I'm so sorry." He thinks again of what Barnes has said, of the pills in her room belying all of her silent struggles. Of the pain she must have faced, coping with a cancer diagnosis alone and on the other side of the world.

"It was my choice," Cameron says simply, shaking her head. "And I didn't come here to make you feel guilty."

"I know you didn't," says Chase, surprised to find his apology met with this admission rather than another stark denial. Even now, with a world of new potential slowly unfolding between them, he is painfully aware of her defenses, of the walls they are both still unready to breach. "Look—You have every right to keep things private. Especially now and especially from me. I'm not asking. But I want you to know that you can talk to me, if you ever decide that you want to. Maybe you're right. Maybe we can't just start over. But I can still be—whatever you need. However little that might be."

Cameron looks up slowly, finally meeting his eyes. "Thank you," she says softly. "But—not tonight."

It sounds like a tacit agreement, and Chase smiles, despite the worsening ache of fever and exhaustion. Cameron brushes her fingers up his arm, making him shiver.

"Still cold?" she asks softly.

Chase nods, feeling foolish. "I know it's the fever. But I'd take everything else, if I could just skip the chills."

"You always hated being cold," says Cameron, smiling sadly. Carefully slipping out of her shoes, she shifts to sit higher up on the bed, sliding an arm around his shoulders.

"You don't have to do that," Chase protests reflexively, though the last thing he wants her to do is stop.

"I know," she answers, not moving, her hand traveling in mesmerizing little circles over the plane of his back.

Letting go of his better judgment at last, Chase turns his face into her neck, exhaling the weight of three years bleak and boundless as the snow-capped sea.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	19. Chapter 19

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

_December 2, 2012_

_4:30 P.M._

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase wakes with a start as Cameron pulls the sputtering Jeep into the parking lot, accidentally scraping the curb.

"Sorry," she says quietly, straightening out in the parking spot and shifting into park.

It is only then that Chase realizes how deeply he has slept through the entire drive from Portland back to Oceanview, entirely unaware of the two hours on bumpy unpaved back roads. After four days at the hospital, alternately working with patients and sleeping in the chair beside his bed, she looks thoroughly drained. He feels instantly guilty, almost as though he has abandoned her somehow for the duration of the drive. She has been strangely quiet since that first night, closer than before, yet still oddly withdrawn, reminding him of the early weeks of their relationship, before she'd learned how to trust him.

Chase swallows, still somewhat painfully, and tries to shake off the haze of lingering illness that seems to have filled his head. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"It's fine," Cameron answers distractedly, gathering up the small mountain of paperwork she's brought back from working at the hospital. "Your body's still fighting. You need lots of rest."

"But you need rest too," Chase argues, shrugging into his coat and opening the door of the Jeep. It's been days since he's gone outside, and he flinches at the blast of cold, damp wind. "You could have woken me."

"I know." She comes around the side of the car, laying a hand on his arm as he shuts the door behind him. "You don't have to apologize. Seriously." Her eyes hold a mixture of concern and confusion, reminding him again of how strangely complicated things between them have become. Now more than ever, he misses the simple comfort of their marriage, the peace he'd always felt in being with her, even in silence.

"I'm worried about you," Chase admits, taking her hand and simply holding it for a moment.

Cameron bites her lip, looking away, still uncertain. "Come on. We should get inside."

"When do I get to go back to work?" asks Chase, as they get into the creaky old elevator. He can still feel the lingering grasp of the flu virus on his body, filling his sleep with bizarre dreams, and stealing his energy. But the hospital has deemed him beyond the point of contagion, and he is beginning to feel terribly restless, unable to be still any longer with the knowledge that crisis is continuing to unfold all around. Cameron has not mentioned the case to him in days, whether out of her own anxiety or a misguided sense of protectiveness, he is unsure.

Cameron looks surprised. "I hadn't thought about that. In a few days, I guess."

Chase frowns. "Why not now?"

"You're still sick," says Cameron simply.

"So?" Chase pushes, feeling increasingly desperate to be of use. "I'm here to help, not languish in bed."

"I don't want you pushing yourself," she answers stubbornly, turning away as the elevator door slides open.

"So—what, you want me to just keep sitting on my hands?" Chase follows her off at her floor, though the button for his own is still expectantly lit. He feels a sudden flare of frustration at her dismissal. He is still immensely grateful for her kindness during the worst days of his illness, yet now finds himself questioning whether he might have misinterpreted, whether what he'd taken for progress might really have been nothing more than her caretaking reflexes.

Cameron pauses, looking taken aback. "I said I want you to rest. Take care of yourself. I get the feeling you haven't been doing a whole lot of that lately."

Chase bristles at this, though he knows she is right. "Yeah? And what about you? When was the last time you took a day off? Our honeymoon?"

"Very mature," Cameron shoots back, heading down the hall toward her room without waiting for him to follow.

Chase stumbles after her, coughing. Not exactly a good sign if he is going to convince her that he's well enough to work, he thinks. Cameron makes it all the day to her door without looking back, but then fumbles with the keycard and is forced to pause. Her hands are shaking, he notices, almost imperceptibly, but betraying her nonetheless. The key light remains red the second time she slides the card as well, and by that point Chase has caught up to her.

"You're running away again," he says quietly, simply. It is not an accusation this time, nothing more than an observation.

Cameron freezes, biting her lip, but says nothing. Wordlessly, Chase takes the keycard from her and opens the door, holding it open for her before following her inside. His anger fades again as he watches her set the stack of papers down on the bed before taking off her coat. Her room is in disarray, the picture of a life constantly interrupted. Hastily folded clothes fill the chair next to the bed, a multitude of papers scattered about the room. He remembers how meticulously organized she'd always kept the condo, and feels a fresh wave of sadness at the new reality of her life.

"I just want to help you," Chase says softly. "You took care of me in the hospital. Why can't I do something for you now?"

Cameron takes a breath, visibly trying to relax. "You got sick because I pushed you too hard. And it could have been so much worse. I've been pushing and pushing, and we're not getting any closer to an answer."

"I got sick because I didn't care enough to go and get a flu shot when I should have," Chase answers gently, slipping out of his own coat and taking a step closer to her. "No one doubts your judgment on this case. It's just an impossible situation."

"The police finished their investigation on the lab," says Cameron, surprising him. She sighs heavily, looking utterly exhausted. "They didn't find anything. Nothing. It's like—no one else was ever there."

"What do you think that means?" asks Chase, feeling a fresh tug of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. For all of her claims that the truth behind what has happened is unimportant, he cannot dismiss the possibility of something more sinister interfering with their work on the case. Especially now that they have all but moved beyond considering an innocent act of nature and into the human element.

"It means I still have no idea who I can trust." Cameron runs a hand through her hair, clearly frustrated. "And that whatever happened, it was much more premeditated than an overly aggressive peeping Tom."

"What about Smith's congregation?" asks Chase, trying to remember through the blur of panic that was the awful realization of his illness. "Did Barnes and Hale finish the interviews?"

"Yes." Cameron paces over to the window, pulling the curtains shut with a harsh snap. "They identified four more probable cases of Nipah. Other than that—nothing. Absolutely nothing to support an involuntary quarantine."

"I'm sorry." Chase feels as though he has failed personally, has deserted her by getting sick when she needs help the most. Yet even now, he is at a loss for what support to offer; he has no doubt that her abilities in this situation far surpass his own. It has been a very long time since he has been truly challenged by anything at work.

Cameron shrugs. "No point apologizing. I just wish I knew where to go next. Sitting back and sticking to surveillance isn't going to do any good, but there's no compelling support for doing anything else." She pinches the bridge of her nose, grimacing as though she can scarcely believe what she herself is telling him. "Ellen Kearney and her sons are dead. And the children Smith was holding in the church. Their parents, too. The death toll from this outbreak is nearly up to forty. Now there's a cluster of possible cases in Portland. We're losing control here."

"I think—we should call House," Chase concedes, after a long moment of silence. He has been avoiding making that contact, after the way the last call played out. But now it feels like the only real possibility for help he has to offer, and doing nothing is unthinkable.

"Seriously?" Cameron looks taken aback, and about as enthusiastic about the idea as he currently feels.

"He's the reason I'm here, right?" Chase pulls out his phone; there have been no missed calls in the past few days. Not since his breakup with Mandy. "I know you don't want to talk to him. I can do it for you, if you want. But I think—it's our best chance at this point."

"No, you're right," Cameron agrees at last. "We should call him together."

Chase dials the phone and puts it on speaker, then sets it on the edge of the bed. Cameron moves over and sits beside it as it rings, motioning for him to join her. Waiting for an answer, Chase holds his breath, dreading what this call might bring.

"I was starting to think you'd gone AWOL," says House, answering after the fourth ring, just before the phone in the Diagnostics office would have gone to voicemail. Chase thinks the department must have their own case today, or House would have gone home hours ago.

"Sorry," he answers glibly. "We've been busy."

"Oh, there's a _we_ now?" House sounds intrigued, ready to poke and prod as only he can. "I heard you dumped the trophy girlfriend."

"I didn't call to talk about that." Chase glances sideways at Cameron, suddenly thinking it was a mistake to have this conversation with her present. House knows better than anyone the sullied reality of his life the past few years, and will undoubtedly go out of his way to prove it. Anything Foreman might have told her pales in comparison to the potential for disaster now.

"You didn't call her to talk about it, either," House presses.

"Enough," says Cameron, speaking up at last. "We called to talk about the case. People are dying."

"I heard about that too." House sounds bored, and there is the sound of his television in the background. "It's been all over the news. And I don't just mean Fox. We're all starting to lose confidence in your abilities. Well, everyone except me. I never believed in them to begin with."

"Go to hell, House," Cameron snaps, unflinching for once. "Are you going to help us or not? If all you're going to do is mock my team, then I don't have time for this."

"Go ahead," says House, unfazed. "Fill me in."

"Turns out Oceanview's not such a sleepy little town after all," says Chase. "We've been questioning a man who goes by the name Jereboam Smith. He's the religious fanatic who was trying to faith heal people in his church. Turns out he's also wanted for domestic terrorism. And he has a battered ex-wife with a library of books on the apocalypse. Meanwhile, we've also got a group called Synchronicity, which bases its beliefs on Mayan mythology and may or may not be preparing for the end of the world to come in a couple weeks."

"Wow." House snorts. "Plus you're there. So basically, the town's a freak show."

"I think Smith and his congregation are responsible for spreading the virus," says Cameron. "They keep talking about cleansing the sinful from Oceanview."

"And what about the Synchronicity group?" asks House. "You wouldn't have mentioned them if you think they're completely uninvolved."

"Smith implicated them as the source of Oceanview's sin," says Chase. "They seem more focused on passively saving the environment than spreading a virus."

"Although—" Cameron interrupts, sounding uncertain. "There is a statistical oddity."

"You know how I love anomalies," says House.

"I said oddity, not anomaly," Cameron argues. "I'm not sure how it would be connected to anyone spreading the outbreak, but—being a member of the Synchronicity group, or having a relative who is a member, is associated with a substantially reduced risk of contracting the virus. Actually, only a couple people in that group have gotten sick so far."

"And yet you're being told they're the cause of this plague," says House, darkly. "They certainly don't sound like the victims here."

"What, you think they're guilty because they're _less_ likely to get sick?" asks Chase. "That sounds more environmental to me. A lot of them are into organic products, probably better nutrition and immune support."

"_That_ much better?" House punctuates the question with silence.

"I don't know," Cameron admits, after a moment. "You really think it's more likely to be the group that's immune to the virus, as opposed to the one that sees it as a divine punishment?"

"Why not both?" asks House, cheerfully. "If you haven't found the answer yet, then you're obviously not looking in the right place."

"Thank you," Cameron concedes, the tension in her face shifting and changing. She now has a new direction in which to move.

"By the way, have you two slept together yet?" House's voice is thin and tinny through the phone, but Chase can still see the superior smirk in his mind's eye.

"I'm hanging up now, House," he warns.

"That means yes," says House, just before Chase cuts him off.

When he looks back at Cameron, she is smiling more broadly than he has seen in a very long time, cheeks flushed ever so slightly. She looks revitalized, the exhaustion which had seemed so close to consuming her before melting away for now.

"What?" asks Chase. Her smile is utterly contagious.

Cameron shakes her head a little. "I'm glad you're here. But I'm not sleeping with you yet."

"Yet?" Chase teases, though his heart is suddenly pounding.

"Go get some rest," she answers simply.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	20. Chapter 20

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Twenty

_9:37 A.M._

_December 3, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

The motel's complimentary breakfast is held in a dingy, cramped room off the mildewed lobby. Its selection features leathery reconstituted eggs, some withered dry sausages, fruit cups full of anemic-looking melon slices, and an assortment of dry cereals with milk. Chase has rarely bothered getting out of bed for this meager service, but after his time in the hospital, the ability to move around freely seems like a luxury. Feeling a renewed sense of energy after the previous night, he makes his way down the tiny buffet line, gathering sugary cereal and a cup of tea. He pauses at the table of condiments, momentarily searching.

"Honey?" says Cameron, from behind him.

Chase turns, surprised, to see that she is holding the plastic squeeze bottle, looking bemused as he takes it out of her hand. "Thanks."

She is wearing sweatpants and a windbreaker, her cheeks still a little flushed, and he wonders suddenly whether she has been outside, running in the cold. Then he notices that Barnes is here as well, seated at a small table that is mostly covered in papers, and happily shoveling down sausage and eggs as though they are at a choice diner. Chase realizes then that his presence has inadvertently interrupted their meeting; there is a focused determination in Cameron's eyes, nearly masked beneath her good humor.

"Want to join us?" she asks. "We decided it wasn't worth waiting for Dr. Hale to come in from Portland this morning. He can keep running his numbers if he's so convinced that's the only way to be productive on the case."

Chase nods, watching the golden coils of honey dissolve into his cup, feeling warmed by her tone, and his inclusion in what is obviously intended to be a private discussion. Barnes looks up as they arrive at the table, smiling and shifting some of the papers around to make room.

"Dr. Chase!" he greets, still beaming. "You live!"

"Mostly," Chase answers, taking a sip of the tea, and wincing when it nearly scalds his tongue.

"We've been doing some more research into that lead House suggested yesterday," says Cameron, leaning closer over the table and lowering her voice. No one else in the small dining area appears to be paying attention to their conversation, but Chase cannot fault her sense of paranoia considering the destruction of the lab. She breaks a bagel into sections, and he finds himself distracted by the movements of her fingers as she delicately spreads butter.

"And?" Chase asks, when he realizes he has been silent too long, Barnes looking his way inquisitively.

"And you're not going to believe what I found!" Barnes sing-songs, spearing a sausage patty and stuffing it into his mouth whole. The gesture reminds Chase of an adolescent boy in the midst of a growth spurt, eating everything in reach.

"Harry, just tell him, please," Cameron chides, grimacing at the sight of him chewing.

"Oliver Cunningham's Synchronicity group?" he asks with his mouth full, only swallowing during the dramatic pause before he answers his own question. "Turns out that once upon a time, their leaders were all members of the same church."

"What?" asks Chase, thoroughly surprised. It's difficult to imagine Smith and Cunningham civilly sitting in the same room together, let alone sharing any sort of faith. Suddenly the suspicion House has cast upon both groups does not seem so farfetched.

"Both groups—well, I guess it was actually only one group back then—had a system of beliefs based around preparation for the coming apocalypse," says Barnes, taking another bite. Chase is suddenly reminded of differentials in the cafeteria, back when they'd been a real team, House stealing bites off everyone's plates.

"So what happened?" he presses, curiosity piqued.

"Well, it seems that they ran into a fundamental disagreement on just _how_ to prepare for Armageddon," says Barnes, obviously loving this attention. He is an excellent storyteller, despite his claims of social ineptitude. "Smith believed that in the end of days, the Earth would be cleansed of sinners, and the righteous would be taken to heaven. Pretty basic religious stuff, right? Except he thought it was his congregation's job to help that sequence of events along."

"Are you saying Smith thought it was his right to kill people?" Chase sets down his bowl of cereal, suddenly feeling deeply sickened.

"Pretty much," Barnes answers darkly. "Although he never said it in as many words. If he had, he would've gotten picked up by the police a whole lot sooner. Then he wouldn't have made it as far as making all those explosives. Seems no one took him seriously at the time."

"We get it," Cameron interrupts, finishing her food.

"Sorry," says Barnes, chastised. "At any rate, Cunningham didn't feel the same way. He thought they should be focusing on compassionate conservation, so that the end of current times would mark a transition to a higher state of awareness, as it says in one interpretation of the Mayan mythology."

"Yeah, he told us about that," says Chase, though suddenly Cunningham's claims of innocence seem far less sincere. "So what do we do now?"

"Now we wait." Cameron folds her paper plate neatly in half, then in two again, obviously restless. "Smith's been released from the hospital as of this morning. Atypically mild case of Nipah, whatever that says about karma. Unfortunately for us, that means he's been taken into police custody. I already told them we need to talk to him, but they have to do their questioning first. Which might be for the best, actually. It's been a week. We need to re-survey the families of all the case patients we've identified so far. That's more than enough to keep the three of us busy for a day."

—

_11:06 P.M._

_December 3, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase makes it through the morning and the first couple of hours after lunch before succumbing to the exhaustion of residual illness. It has grown dark out when he wakes again, and he has a moment of disoriented panic in which he cannot tell how much time has passed. Sitting up and switching on the lamp, he realizes that he has slept well past dinnertime. Deciding it would be pointless to go back to sleep now, he gets up and orders a pizza, then steps into the shower. He feels as though he might be able to wash away the past three years, countless failed attempts at moving on, the apathy which has grown over the surface of his life like a callus.

He's made it through a good chunk of the pizza and is feeling pleasantly full and drowsy when Cameron comes to his door, half dozing while a terribly melodramatic science fiction movie plays on the television. He knows in his gut as soon as he hears the knock, knows that she is the only one who would be coming to his room this late. Knows that something between them has been shifting over the past week, changing in a way he cannot quite yet predict.

He isn't expecting the look of uncertainty in her eyes when he opens the door, the delicate damp tendrils of hair framing her face. She looks like a shadow of the woman he'd first fallen in love with all those years ago, dressed in faded jeans and a white t-shirt with a tear at the collar. She is wearing her glasses, and looks more drained than ever, as though the day's fresh burst of energy has taken a larger toll. It is only then he truly understands that it has all been an elaborate façade, a mask of confidence, of passion, to hide her unhappiness from the world. That she is running from her own loneliness, in the same way he has been.

"Hey," Chase says softly, when she remains silent. Wordlessly, he steps back to let her into the room.

Cameron pauses just inside the door, hugging herself as she looks around "I don't know why I came here."

Chase smiles, immeasurably glad to see her despite the tug of guilt in the pit of his stomach. "You don't need a reason. I've got leftover pizza, if you want some. Or I could make tea."

But she just shakes her head, still looking lost. "I'm fine. Thanks."

"Then can I interest you in a movie?" Chase offers gallantly. "High class science fiction here." On the television, a monster which appears to be made of blatantly fake Styrofoam boulders is chasing a group of drunk teenagers around a woodland campsite.

Cameron glances at the screen and laughs softly, but she is obviously still preoccupied. "I don't want to bother you. I'm sorry. I know you need to rest."

"Allison," Chase breathes, sensing her sudden apprehension. The last thing he wants to do now is push her too far, send her once again into defense and retreat. "Just—come sit down for a while. We don't even have to talk if you don't want to."

Cameron bites her lip, then nods slowly. "Thank you."

Chase climbs back up onto the bed and offers her a pillow as she follows, watches her settle against the headboard. On the television, the rock monster is terrorizing a shopping mall full of people. But Chase finds himself focusing only on her face, on the persisting tension in the curve of her neck. He wonders for the hundredth time what horrors she has faced in the past three years, how she has managed to survive when he can scarcely outwit his own demons. Sitting up, he runs a hand lightly over her back, feeling taut muscles jump beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. Cameron turns to look at him, her eyes filled with a sea of questions, but she says nothing. Shifting closer, Chase takes hold of her shoulders, massaging carefully, listening to her soft exhalation of breath. Minutes pass, bleeding one into the next, but he feels as though time is standing still, as though they might be back in Princeton, in their condo, as though this might be just another night negotiating the rocky cliffs of their relationship. Closing his eyes, Chase slides his arms around her waist, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo as she rests her temple against his.

"I was in Haiti when I first started having pain," she says quietly, surprising him.

Chase doesn't dare reply, simply shifting her weight closer against his side and waiting for her to continue.

"We were there for the second time, another cholera outbreak a year after the first one I worked on." She pauses to take a breath, tensing a little. "It was at night that I noticed it, mostly. First these little twinges. I remember it was like—someone snapping a rubber band against my stomach. Little sharp pinches. At first, I thought I might have caught something. The first time I was on a cholera outbreak, half my team got sick. But it didn't turn into that. It just—started spreading. Turned into more of a dull ache. Maybe if I'd done something about it then—But we were on the case for months. There were never enough supplies, people were dying everywhere. I couldn't—"

"You couldn't take time away from your patients to take care of yourself," Chase finishes. He recognizes instantly that these are symptoms which are dangerous to ignore, but knows that she would never have been able to resign from a case in order to treat her own health.

Cameron swallows audibly, shaking her head against his shoulder. "By the time I got back to Atlanta, it was invasive. I'm too young for endometrial cancer, right? I was supposed to have time still. A few years to have a family if I had decided—" She breaks off, laughing bitterly. "They told me I could try intensive chemo instead of surgery. But—I would have had to resign from my job. And even if it had shrunk the tumors, there was no guarantee I'd ever be able to have children."

"So you had the hysterectomy," Chase breathes, feeling the impact of the revelation like a kick to the gut. He knows instantly how devastating this is to her dreams, to the vision of a future he'd once imagined sharing with her. "I'm so sorry, love." There is nothing more to say.

Cameron shakes her head, sitting up a little. "I made my choices. And it wasn't anyone's fault but my own. No one else should have to know."

"Hey," Chase whispers, catching her around the shoulders again gently. There is nothing he can do to make this better, he knows, helpless against the terrible injustice of disease. "Stay here tonight."

"Why?" Cameron breathes, but she makes no move to get up again.

Never breaking her gaze, Chase pulls the blankets over both of them. Cameron does not protest any further, turning onto her side. Slipping his leg protectively over her hip, he finds her hand and laces their fingers over her heart, feeling the fluttering beat of her pulse against his skin.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	21. Chapter 21

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One

_7:32 A.M._

_December 4, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase wakes slowly, becoming aware first of the pleasantness of warmth on his back, feeling enveloped by restful comfort. Opening his eyes, he is met by light streaming in through the gap between the curtains. It is the first morning since arriving in Oceanview that he has seen the fog burned off, the sun free of the constant soggy veil of clouds.

"Hey," says Cameron, and Chase turns to see her lying beside him, balanced on her elbow, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"Hey," Chase echoes, feeling a sudden rush of emotion. It has been months since he has allowed himself to wake up with anyone else, fleeing even from his countless nights with strangers. He realizes now that he has not expected her to stay the entire night, despite her unspoken agreement. He senses the profound transformation that is slowly unfolding between them, yet finds himself still too afraid to accept its reality. It seems an impossibility that they could truly find one another out here, at the edge of the world and in the midst of such disaster.

"Are you okay?" Cameron asks, brow furrowing in concern. She reaches out to touch his forehead, as if expecting to find him feverish once more.

Chase swallows thickly, surprised to find his throat tight with a grief he has been denying since the divorce was finalized. He'd allowed himself to feel the loss at first, when she'd just been gone, no explanation or closure. He thinks now that it had been possible to face the hole in his life then, with a renegade shred of hope still burning somewhere in the back of his mind. Afterward, he'd wanted nothing more than to feel better, as quickly as possible, as shallowly as necessary.

"I'm fine," he manages after a moment, then feels guilty, remembering how many times he'd used that particular excuse before. "It's just—You have no idea how many times I've thought about waking up like this."

"Well, now we can assure House that he's right we've slept together," says Cameron lightly, though he can see in her eyes that she recognizes the true depth of his confession.

Shyly, she leans over and brushes her lips against his, slowly, tentatively, as though waiting for a rejection. Instead he lets his eyes slip closed again, leaning into the kiss with the desperation of a thousand tantalizing dreams. Chase allows himself to be lost despite the rush of melancholy he has not felt since that day in the clinic. Suddenly he remembers the warmth of her skin beneath his lips on the cool, hard exam table, how painful it had been to give her the proper goodbye she'd wanted, to resist the terrible urge to simply cling to her and beg for time to stand still. Now he feels the same immutable instinct stealing his breath, the horrible sense that she is slipping through his fingers before they have even truly begun again.

"Hey," Cameron breathes as he pulls away, blinking back tears despite himself. She lays her hand against his jaw, ghosting the pad of her thumb along his cheek. "It's okay."

"It's not okay," says Chase, too quickly, instantly regretting the harshness of his tone. He is afraid to push this thing between them, fears he can already see the cracks. He forces himself to take a breath, trying to calm down. "Why are you doing this? Why now?"

"I missed you," she says simply, reaching for his hand again.

"But you don't love me," says Chase, grasping to understand the true implications of her answer. "That's why you had to leave. You can't love me and live with yourself. Not after—what I did."

"That was three years ago." Cameron brushes her hair out of her face, looking agitated for the first time this morning, though he cannot quite read why.

"Three centuries wouldn't change what I did," Chase insists, pulling away and sitting up.

She straightens to face him, never breaking his gaze. "It's easy to talk about morality and the sanctity of human life when you're safe inside a modern hospital, with law and protocol to back you up. When the worst thing you might see is a pile-up of cars on the highway."

Chase frowns. "What are you saying?"

Cameron bites her lip, taking in a slow breath, as though consciously trying to measure her response. "I'm saying—When you walk through a village that's been raided and burned, looking for survivors...When you watch a woman die giving birth to her rapist's baby…When you treat hundreds of refugees who have been beaten within an inch of their lives just for being born—It's hard to imagine _not_ murdering every one of the men responsible, given the chance."

"Allison—" Chase whispers, utterly unable to manage anything more than her name, its familiar syllables which have seemed to echo on his lips in her absence.

"I'm sorry," she answers, with more certainty than he has ever heard before. "I'm sorry I couldn't be the person you needed then. I'm sorry I was too afraid to trust you." Not waiting for a reply, she moves closer again, wrapping her arms around him from behind and resting her chin on his shoulder, holding on tightly.

"I forgave you a long time ago," says Chase, meaning it. But he is not yet ready to receive her forgiveness in return, he realizes, not ready to accept the absolution he has known so long could come only from her. He does not doubt her sincerity for a second, knows far better than to question her intentions. Yet he knows, deep down, in a part of himself he has learned too well to keep buried, that he has still to earn his own redemption. He has allowed himself to stop trying for far too long; this case is only the beginning. Still, he manages to find comfort in her embrace, to come back to the simple peace of the present moment, no longer focusing on the potential for future pain. The unlikely sun is still shining outside the window.

—

_8:53 A.M._

_December 4, 2012_

_Oceanview High School_

_Oceanview, OR_

Barnes looks as though he's trying to pace a hole through the floor when Chase and Cameron arrive at the conference room. He is even more frantic than usual, pale and sweating, wringing his hands through his hair so that it sticks up at odd angles as though he has been electrocuted. Watching him, it is impossible not to feel panicked.

"Dr. Cameron, thank god," he says by way of greeting, then continues without giving her a chance to respond. "Where have you been? I've been trying to call your cell phone. You're usually here a couple hours early, at least."

"I was asleep," says Cameron, and Chase feels an instant stab of unease at the thought that he has kept her from the case. "What's up?"

"The Reverend Loony Smith is still in police custody," says Barnes, visibly trying to catch his breath, and leaning against the back of a chair. "They're talking jail time, no bail. So his congregation—the ones not in the hospital—decided to stage an impromptu protest outside the station. Like, right now."

"And you think we should be there?" asks Cameron, frowning. "They're rallying in front of the police station? I think the police would want to handle that. They've been touchy about jurisdiction throughout this case. I don't want to step on any toes when we still need to interview Smith ourselves."

"So we don't go to try to control anything," Barnes insists. "We just—go and watch. You were the one who said we should interview the entire congregation. Don't you think a chance to watch them in action is crucial? Especially when they're this pissed off. If you think they're involved in spreading the outbreak, there's no telling what could happen!"

"Okay, okay," Cameron soothes, relenting. "I see your point. But if we go, I want us to be as inconspicuous as possible. The last thing we need is a Fox News report about the CDC harassing a religious group."

"I'm coming with you," says Chase, sensing that she will try once more to protect him. He tries to remind himself that she has worked in the midst of a dozen more dangerous conflicts, yet cannot swallow his own irrational anxiety for her safety. If she is going to risk herself, he thinks, he needs to be in the line of fire as well.

Cameron pauses, regarding him for a tense moment, as though trying to measure the ways in which their relationship has shifted and grown over the space of a few precious hours. "Okay. If you're sure."

—

_9:23 A.M._

_December 4, 2012_

_Oceanview, OR_

The Oceanview police station is the smallest Chase has ever seen, scarcely large enough to accommodate more than a couple of rooms, at least viewed from the outside. The crowd is gathered in a large open lot adjoining the property, a good fifty people milling around with signs and megaphones which look too modern for the town, out of place.

"Put these on," says Cameron, holding out a pack of N95 masks as they step out of the Jeep across the street from the action. "It's a crowd, and we know at least some of their family members were infected last week."

Chase slips the mask over his nose and mouth, adjusting it to an airtight fit before following her. Cameron makes her way to the edge of the lot where the protesters have gathered, but keeps several hundred feet back from them, behind the cover of some trees.

"I think that's close enough," she says quietly, restraining Barnes with a hand on his arm. He freezes in his tracks, falling back to stand with them.

In the lot, the noise is growing, the small crowd seeming to feed off of its own energy. Chase is struck by how many children are present; it seems odd and even dangerous bringing them to an event such as this, especially given the threat of contagion. But then he thinks again of the church, of the blind devotion which had led parents in desperation to sacrifice the safety of their families then. He tries to remember a time when his own faith was so all-encompassing, and finds that he cannot.

"You would think they'd realize the police are doing them a favor," Cameron remarks, close to his ear, her voice muffled slightly behind the protective shield of her mask. "Smith's attempted bombing of his Washington church has been all over the news. Yet these people still see him as their savior."

"Well," says Chase darkly, "if he's not it, then maybe nobody is. You think they're ready to accept that possibility?"

"I think the world would be better off if we were all atheists," says Cameron. "Or at least agnostic. Can't kill someone in the name of your god when you're not sure whether god exists."

"They'd find other reasons to kill one another," answers Chase, surprising himself with the depth of his own cynicism. Too many years around House, he thinks.

As they watch, a man breaks away from the crowd, climbing atop a chair with his arms pinwheeling, obviously seeking the attention of the onlookers. He looks young, Chase thinks, barely older than a teenager, with close-cropped hair and blue eyes full of passionate naiveté. The second thing he thinks is that the man looks sick. He is obviously having trouble balancing, flushed with fever though he is wearing only a thin denim jacket in the bitter cold wind. Opening his mouth to address the crowd, he coughs roughly, spitting into the grass.

"We've got to do something," says Barnes, taking a step forward.

But Cameron catches him by the arm again. "Not yet. They've already all been exposed to one another. We can't just go running into the middle of an angry protest with nothing but masks on. If we're going to take all these people into quarantine, we're going to need police backup." She pulls out her cell phone, dialing.

"People of Oceanview!" yells the man, rocking unsteadily on the chair. A hush falls over the crowd. "Our guide has told us of this day, when the corrupt government would fight on the side of the sinful!"

A few people applaud tentatively. Out of the corner of his eye, Chase watches two police officers exit the building, their uniforms standing out bright blue against the deadened foliage of winter.

"Today, it is up to us to stand for our beliefs!" The man throws his hands in the air, and a shout goes up from the crowd; the people are committed to it now. "It is up to us to tell the heretics we will not let them win!"

There is another shout, and the two police officers begin moving slowly closer. The man on the chair glances over his shoulder, becoming aware of their presence. A hysterical smile spreads over his features; he has anticipated this, and it is exactly what he has wanted.

"We are the faithful of Oceanview, and we will prevail!" With this, he throws off his jacket, revealing what is underneath.

It is already too late when Chase realizes that this man is wearing a vest wrapped in homemade explosives, electrical tape binding him like the dead. He is holding the detonator in his right hand, has already pressed the button of no return by the time Chase becomes aware of what is happening.

The next thing he knows, Cameron is pushing him to the ground, the carpet of decaying leaves frigid beneath his palms. Unable to move, he closes his eyes, desperately trying to remember how to pray.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!

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	22. Chapter 22

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two

_11:21 P.M._

_December 4, 2012_

_Oceanview High School_

_Oceanview, OR_

"Our primary focus now must be containment." Martha Cohen cuts an imposing figure against the faded white wall of the teachers' lounge. She is barely off the plane from Atlanta headquarters, but the sharp folds of her dark suit betray nothing of the journey. She has chosen to fly in immediately following news of the bombing, and it already seems clear that she will take control of the situation as soon as this debriefing has been completed.

Chase glances across the table first at Barnes, who is leaning over in his chair, jiggling his foot nervously in a rhythm that shakes his entire body. Next to him, Hale is perfectly still, though he has yet to comment or object as he usually does during team meetings. Taking a breath, Chase turns so that he can see Cameron out of the corner of his eye. She is seated next to him, displaced from her usual spot at the head of the table by the arrival of her boss. A thin scrape stands out against the pallor her cheek and her shoulders are drawn up with tension; the line of her back reminds Chase of a bowstring, stretched and ready to break. He wants to reach out and touch her hand, to take away the horrible reality of what has happened.

"I have been reviewing your reports, Mr. Barnes," says Cohen, and Barnes jumps at the sound of his name. "And I have to say, I find them quite baffling. I was under the impression that your assignment here was to determine the epidemiological causes of this outbreak. So I find myself wondering—Why have you spent so much time investigating the residents of this city?"

It sounds as though she has been talking to Hale, Chase thinks, and he wonders not for the first time whether he' been making secret reports of his own to CDC headquarters. Frustration turns his stomach, ready to burst forth with protestations. Chase forces himself to remain quiet, knowing he will only make appearances worse if he tries to defend her now.

"My assignment was to coordinate this team's efforts in determining the causes of the outbreak, and to use that information to form a containment plan," says Cameron stonily. Her tone is perfectly even, but Chase can see the delicate muscle in her jaw jumping as she speaks. "We began with interviews and surveys, according to protocol. We examined the factors which correlated with increased or decreased risk of becoming ill. From that data, two significant patterns emerged, both associated with membership in each of two resident religious groups. All things considered, the logical next step was then to investigate those two groups, their leaders, and their members."

"And has that course of action led you to a conclusion which will aid us in moving forward with a containment plan?" asks Cohen. Her tone holds barely-masked condescension; clearly she already knows the answer and is toying with the team, seeing what the response will be.

"I don't think we've been allowed to collect sufficient data yet to make an informed conclusion," Cameron answers coldly, clearly aware of the trap into which she is being led. "But we have identified and quarantined a number of case patients with Nipah. And we uncovered a manipulative and abusive criminal masquerading as a faith healer. It's hardly as though we've been sitting on our hands. My team is getting closer to an answer every day."

"And what does Dr. House think of this method?" asks Cohen, surprising Chase. He has forgotten that House's involvement was originally her idea.

"Our investigation has been in line with Dr. House's suggestions," says Chase, when Cameron doesn't answer. "House believes very strongly in accounting for the human element in a case. _People_ make people sick as often as pathogens do."

"Really," says Cohen doubtfully. "Then I think it's safe to say we won't be needing his services any more on this case. You are free to return to Princeton, Dr. Chase. I asked for a consult from an infectious disease expert. If I want a private detective, I'll talk to the FBI."

"All due respect," Chase argues, struggling to keep his voice calm. Cameron is watching him now, helplessly. "But House has earned his reputation as an infectious disease expert by using these methods. If you want the best, this is how you're going to get it."

"Dr. Cameron, your team has been here in Oceanview for nearly a month," says Cohen, ignoring Chase's response. "In that time, you have identified only potential social factors contributing to this outbreak. Nothing environmental. No progress toward identifying the natural reservoir of the virus. You have, however, managed to upset the local climate and fuel a religious rumor panic which has now resulted in a man's death."

"And what do you suggest we should have done instead?" asks Cameron, her voice rising at last. "Stick to the statistics and the surveys and the numbers that are telling us nothing? Ignore the harm we discover just because it's caused by a man and not directly by a virus? I thought it was our job to promote and protect health."

"By discovering and containing the root causes of a viral outbreak," says Cohen sharply. "Oceanview has an excellent local police department. They have been available to help you all along. But you have resisted, chosen to step over boundary and protocol and take the role of law enforcement upon yourselves. You have resisted your simple duty to report a breach of the law and then step back and get out of the way. A man is dead now. The demonstration has succeeded. We now face quarantine of the forty-eight protesters and two police officers who were exposed to aerosolized virus this afternoon. Responsibility for this disaster lies on you, Dr. Cameron, and your inability to maintain appropriate protocol."

"Fine," says Cameron, getting to her feet. "I ignored your precious protocol. I'll admit that. But I fail to see how that places the blame for another man's attack on the health of the town on me and my team. I've done _everything_ in my power to solve this case and save lives. If protocol is more important than that, fire me."

"You know I can't fire you without a full peer review," says Cohen, refusing to respond to Cameron's show of passion. "But you are suspended indefinitely. I will be taking over your team and this case. You will remain in Oceanview and assist with quarantine measures. Nothing else. Dr. Chase, you will return to Princeton and inform Dr. House that his services are no longer needed by the CDC. This meeting is dismissed."

—

_12:51 A.M._

_December 5, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

"She's toying with me," says Cameron, the moment the door of her room swings closed, locking with a snap. "I'm going to be fired, there's no point in making me stay here to aid and abet her in blowing the rest of the case. It's a punishment."

"You don't know that you'll be fired," Chase argues, though he knows already he is grasping at straws. "They have to do a peer review first? I can't believe you don't have a single colleague who would support you. I know you, Allison. You're the best there is. Someone has to see that."

Cameron laughs once, bitterly. She takes off her coat and throws it toward the bed, missing. It lands in a heap on the floor with a sound like a sharp sigh. "Believe it. I broke protocol and have nothing to show for it. Twice. I'm a liability to the government, that's all they need to know."

"Don't say that," Chase blurts, taking a step toward her. He wants to tell her that it hasn't been pointless, that regardless of what anyone might think about the case, this unnamed and fragile thing between them is intangibly priceless. But that is not what she cares about now, and he knows better than to push in that direction.

"Why not?" Cameron closes the distance between them, arms crossed over her chest, chin tipped up in defiance. "It's true. I'm as good as done. Last three years of my life down the drain." She exhales decisively, a sharp little snort of disgust. "Let's go get drunk."

"Allison." Chase lays his hand on her arm, very gently, catching his breath as though the tension radiating off of her is contagious. "I know you're upset. I am too. It's anything but fair. But the last thing you need right now is to be putting your health and safety in jeopardy."

"My health is none of your business," she argues, her voice rising. Her eyes are glassy with exhaustion and unshed tears; there's a wildness about her Chase has seen before. "I'm not some fragile flower in need of your care. And you heard Director Cohen, you're going back to Princeton in the morning. You're never going to see me again."

"I'm not going anywhere," Chase blurts, and instantly knows that it is the truth. He has not consciously decided until this moment, but he has not considered the reality of leaving, either. "So what if I can't be officially on the case. I hear Oceanview is a big tourist town. I've got plenty of vacation saved up."

For a second, Cameron simply stares at him in silence, as though unsure whether to believe him. And then she is kissing him in a rush, snaking her arms around his waist and tugging the hem of his shirt from his pants. Chase tangles his fingers in her hair, urging her frantically closer. He is reminded again how desperately he has missed her, how many times he has longed for this moment.

Cameron walks him backwards until he finds the edge of the bed, sitting down heavily and pulling his shirt over his head. She moves to stand between his knees, the ends of her hair tickling his cheek and sending goosebumps racing over his skin as she bends to kiss his neck. Chase slips his hand under her shirt, tracing the line of her back. She leans away for a moment, making quick work of the buttons on her blouse and shrugging out of it. He unhooks her bra deftly, finding her nipple with his thumb as she bends to kiss him again. She makes a small, needy noise in the back of her throat, and Chase hooks an arm around her waist, pulling her down to the bed beside him. Cameron goes still for a moment, breathing hard, her eyes dark in the low light.

"You okay?" he asks softly, laying his palm against her cheek. As the rush of the moment fades, she seems hesitant, almost shy. Chase has the sense that they have both been waiting for this night; now that it has arrived, it seems almost overwhelming.

Cameron nods, smiling uncertainly. "Yeah. It's just—three years is a really long time." She turns and kisses the pad of his thumb, then shifts to lie back on the bed, watching him.

Chase is still for a moment, lost in memories. That day in the clinic she had been unquestionably in control, almost vicious, so that he'd felt all the anguish of the signed divorce papers, of a blissful future ripped away. Now she seems to be waiting for his judgment, putting herself at his mercy.

Taking a breath, Chase shifts to lean over her, caressing the soft skin between her breasts. Cameron shivers beneath him, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. Moving downward, he kisses her belly, pausing at the waistline of her pants. She lifts her hips as he pushes her slacks and panties down. The delicate red scar just below her hipbones surprises him; in his desperation to have her back at last, he has almost allowed himself to forget everything that has been taken from her. Cameron tenses, clearly aware that he is seeing. Swallowing a rush of emotion, Chase traces the scar with his lips, very tenderly. When he looks up again, there are tears on her cheeks.

"It's okay," Chase breathes, leaning up to kiss her forehead.

Cameron swallows visibly, reaching up to undo his belt and push his jeans down.

"Turn over," he whispers, suddenly needing to be closer.

Cameron glances at him in surprise, but rolls onto her side. Chase kisses the nape of her neck as he settles the length of his body behind hers, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She shudders as he slips his other hand between her legs, stroking gently. Time seems to fall away; he scarcely dares to breathe, afraid for things to break again. He goes still only when she stops him with a hand on his wrist, breathing hard. She is watching him over her shoulder, looking more vulnerable than he has ever seen her before.

"Ready?" he asks softly, and she nods.

Chase slips his leg over her hip, groaning at the sensation of sinking into her at last. She grabs his hand as he starts to move, lacing their fingers and holding on hard. He closes his eyes, listening to her breath hitch, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo. For an instant he tries to convince himself that nothing's changed, but knows immediately that it is a lie. There is no going back for them, no rewriting an ending. This is the beginning of something entirely new, and their only hope now is to embrace it. He finds himself quickly overwhelmed, struggling to maintain a rhythm through the intensity of this moment. Cameron comes with a soft cry, her entire body heaving. Chase clings to her as he thrusts a few more times, sobbing roughly as he reaches his own climax at last. She turns over almost immediately, wrapping herself around him. It is then he realizes that she is crying too.

"I'm not going anywhere," Chase repeats, knowing with certainty that he cannot bear to lose this again.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated! (Also, I got into grad school! :) )


	23. Chapter 23

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three

_5:18 A.M._

_December 5, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

The world is still dark outside the hotel room window when Chase wakes to the wailing of the small travel hairdryer which is mounted on the bathroom wall. He sits up in a rush, breathing hard, momentarily lost before he manages to retrieve the memory of the previous night, the realization that it was not a dream. His clothes are still crumpled on the floor by the bedside; he can see their shadows in the light creeping out around the bathroom door. He resists turning on the lamp, hearing in the muffled whirring that something has changed. They have spent the past two nights trying to outrun reality, to believe that the obstacles which shattered their marriage have miraculously evaporated during the intervening years. But now it has caught up, he thinks. He feels it in the cold, crisp sheets against his bare skin, in the heaviness of his own breath.

Planting his feet on the floor, Chase stands slowly, pulling on his boxers from where they are puddled on the carpet. The wind is whipping angrily outside when he pulls back the heavy curtains, an empty plastic bag being buffeted around the parking lot. When the hairdryer goes quiet, Chase crosses the room to the bathroom door, surprised to find it unlocked. Cameron is dressed already, in neatly ironed slacks and blouse, as though armoring herself in an immaculate suit. She doesn't meet his eyes, ignoring his reflection behind hers in the mirror as she runs a comb through her hair.

"What's going on?" Chase lets the question hang in the air, weighty like a thundercloud.

Cameron shrugs, still looking away, leaning forward to apply lipstick. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Obviously." Chase crosses his arms and rests his hip against the counter. The neat rows of pill bottles feel imposing, iron bars between them. He remembers standing in front of another mirror, another time and place, watching her curl long blonde locks.

"I have to go to Portland," says Cameron, flatly. She zips her makeup bag shut, but does not push past him into the other room. "We've got a lot of people going into involuntary quarantine now. It's a long drive. I want to get an early start."

"It's not even six," says Chase. "You're running away."

Cameron rolls her eyes, her shoulders rigid. "Don't make this personal. I'm still on this case, if only to do Dr. Cohen's dirty work. You're a tourist now, for all intents and purposes."

"You think it's that simple?" Chase sucks in a breath, feeling as though the ground is shifting beneath him. "You think I'll just _stop_ _caring_ about the case because some bureaucracy is telling me to? People are dying. I came here to be a doctor. I'm going to do everything I can."

"Portland has plenty of doctors," Cameron snaps, though it's obvious her true anger stems from elsewhere. She is parroting excuses, an emotional sleight of hand he has watched her play against him before. "We don't need doctors right now. We need someone who can figure this out."

"Yesterday, you thought we could do that together," Chase argues. "Last night, even. We were getting somewhere. Now you just want to let all of that go? Stick to the protocol you've thought was useless all along?"

"I was wrong," says Cameron darkly. She is still barefoot, and this detail makes her seem oddly vulnerable.

"That's a load of crap." Chase turns to face her directly, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You're scared and you're running away. I don't know why now all of a sudden, and I don't know what you're trying to run from. But I know you, Allison, and you don't just _give up_ on your beliefs. You _know_ you didn't do anything wrong."

"I broke protocol," says Cameron, stubbornly. "Worse than broke. Ignored entirely. Now a man is dead, and we've got a crowd of innocent bystanders not only injured but exposed to the very virus we're here to protect them from. And here _we_ are, acting like martyrs. I wasn't thinking clearly last night."

"All right, fine." Chase takes a step toward her, resting a hand lightly on her arm. That she would shoulder the guilt for the young man's death makes sense; Cameron has always felt a profound sense of responsibility for everyone involved in her cases. "I get that you're feeling guilty for what happened. But that's not a reason to give up, or to try and punish yourself. Let me help you. That's all I'm saying. You don't even have to take me to Portland with you. It doesn't have to be on the record. I'm not here to get you in trouble. Just—tell me what you need me to do. I can call House, follow up on the leads we were—"

"Don't go there," Cameron interrupts, surprising him.

"What?" asks Chase, taken aback. "Don't offer to help you? I thought we'd gotten past this, Allison. I want to be there for you."

"I let myself trust you," says Cameron, sounding suddenly as though she might cry. "I let myself get convinced—that maybe I was wrong. That maybe this could somehow work again. I left because I couldn't live with the person House was turning me into. Turning _you_ into. What you did, I can forgive. But House-"

"I am _not_ House," Chase cuts her off, sharply. "I never have been and I never want to be."

"You don't want to be like him," Cameron corrects. "But you are. You think like him. You got _me_ thinking like him again. And maybe you're right, maybe it's not directly our fault what happened yesterday. But that doesn't make it okay to just ignore the protocols the CDC has in place. They're there to protect people."

"You don't think it's possible to do both?" asks Chase, swallowing a rush of his own guilt. He feels blindsided, caught once more in the endless fight with his demons.

"I haven't asked you to leave," says Cameron, shrugging out of his grasp and moving past him, signaling the discussion's end. "But from now on we do everything by the book. I don't want you involved in the case, on or off the record."

—

_6:03 A.M._

_December 5, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase dresses as quickly as he can, the darkness of his own hotel room suddenly feeling oppressive. The last few days, his world has been expanding; it has felt as though he might finally be able to break free of whatever mental rut he's fallen into. Now he feels overwhelmed by the need for movement, the urge to turn and run, yet is unable to abandon the small, fragile glimmer of possibility.

Feeling directionless, he takes the stairs down to the lobby, stomach turning at the overpowering rubbery smell of reconstituted eggs. Chase ignores the meager breakfast service which has just begun, and heads straight out the glass double doors to the parking lot. He's forgotten his heavy coat, and the wind cuts straight through the threads of his sweater. Still he keeps walking, finding himself on the little path down to the beach almost before he's realized where he's going. The sky is still dark, clouds blanketing any trace of light, though the sun should have climbed over the horizon by now. The ocean is being whipped into an angry green froth, whitecaps surfacing like menacing teeth.

He stops at the edge of the water, watching the tide creep toward the toes of his shoes before receding again at the last possible moment. Breathing in the sharp bite of salt and ozone in the air, he envisions what it might be like walking into the waves, the shock of the icy water, unfathomable depths below like the expanse of the future. The next wave comes much faster than the last, startling him out of his reverie and sending him stumbling backwards. Climbing back up to higher ground, Chase shivers, trying to find some sort of direction. He wonders what House would want him to do. This thought is followed immediately by nauseating bitterness, the full realization of just how much has been consumed by his blind devotion to the job.

Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he turns so that his back is to the unrelenting wind, and dials the number for House's office. Chase's heart pounds as he waits for a response; he feels defiant in a way that he has not dared since before Dibala's death.

"Hello?" Foreman's voice is a surprise on the other end of the line, particularly since he's been expecting a knowing jibe from House.

Chase frowns, squinting as the wind whips the sand into a storm of angry needles against his face. "Where's House?"

"Good morning to you too, Chase." He can practically see Foreman's eye roll, coupled with his look of smug satisfaction while sitting at House's vacant desk.

"Fine," says Chase, sourly. "Good morning. Where's House? I called his desk phone."

"And it's barely after nine," answers Foreman. "When was the last time you saw House at work that early?"

It is only then that Chase realizes he has lost track of time entirely; only the coastal difference has saved him from calling when no one was in the office at all. He feels profoundly unsettled by the mistake, as though his life is beginning to come apart at the seams.

"Was there something you wanted to tell him?" asks Foreman, when Chase has been silent for too long. "I'm pretty sure I'm capable of taking a message."

"We're off the case," Chase answers simply, not even trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "The CDC higher-ups came in yesterday to take control of the investigation. They don't feel the need for us lowly medical doctors to stick around when the big gun epidemiologists are in town."

"Right," says Foreman, ignoring the commentary. "So should I tell him you'll be at work first thing tomorrow morning? Or will you need a day off to recover from the jetlag?"

The tone of Foreman's voice says that he knows Chase intends to do no such thing. Chase feels a swell of anger, as though Foreman has become an extension of House, the entire department reflecting the mockery his life has become.

"You're not coming back yet," says Foreman, once again interpreting Chase's silence, and the tiredness of too many years between them. "Because either Cameron asked you to stay, or she didn't and you're intent on staying until she does."

"She told me to stay out of the way," says Chase, realizing a moment too late that he has just taken the bait. But suddenly he cannot resist the urge to tell someone what has happened, to try and make sense of this complicated tangle of memory and possibility.

"And you don't know how to stay out of the way. Not when Cameron is involved."

"That's not the point," Chase argues, bristling. "Last night, when her boss showed up and kicked her off the case, she wanted my help. She wanted me to stick around and keep working, and protocol be damned. This morning, suddenly, it was like—everything changed. She wants to do it by the book, and she wants me out of the way."

"Did you sleep with her?" asks Foreman.

"She said I've turned into House." Chase kicks a small mound of sand with the toe of his shoe, watching it spill down the little incline and be picked up by the tide. "That—being with me is turning her into House, too."

Foreman snorts. "She's right."

"You're just saying that to be an ass."

"I'm saying it because it's true," Foreman insists. "You might not have been like House when she left you, but look at yourself now. When was the last time you had a meaningful relationship with anyone? So what if it's girls at bars. Is your one night stand really any different than House's hookers if you never even learn her name? When was the last time you really cared about a case? The only thing separating you from House is the Vicodin. And the cane."

"Fine," Chase snaps, stung. "I'll come home tomorrow. Have fun telling House."

"You're missing my point," says Foreman instead. "And Cameron's. If you come home now, you're _worse_ than House. He'd at least care enough to stay for the sake of solving the puzzle."

"I don't want this to be about some puzzle. It's not a game. I don't want to be like House!" Chase protests, sickened.

"Then don't be," says Foreman, simply.

Out over the ocean, lightning slices open the clouds, and the storm begins in earnest with a deluge of rain which feels as though the sea is falling from the sky.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	24. Chapter 24

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four

_11:51 A.M._

_December 5, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

For a facility built in a town which sees near-constant rainfall, the motel's satellite is terrible. Chase lies back against the stiff headboard and flips through channels, searching for any sort of a distraction. Most have already been reduced to static or a black screen with an error message, and the few that are still functioning alternate maddeningly between a few seconds of programming and more white noise. Still, Chase keeps his hand on the remote, rhythmically pressing the channel button despite the abysmal results. He feels paralyzed here, unable to break free of this cycle of frustration and decide on any sort of direction.

Regrets cycle immutably through his mind, echoes of his many bad decisions, of all the people who have tried to help. Of everyone he has managed to push away. It had been December when he'd first realized he wanted to marry Cameron, though it had taken the better part of five more months to work up the courage, to convince himself that she might be ready as well, that he wasn't simply gunning for disaster. When he thinks about their relationship now, he sees it as a precarious uphill climb, never moving in leaps and bounds, but unfolding slowly, tentatively, over the course of six years, beginning before he'd even truly been aware. That he ever thought rebuilding something so perilously intricate might be possible now seems naïve, even ignorant. It had taken him only a few weeks to crush all of their progress, after all.

He can't say how much time has passed, but it's still raining hard when the knock on his door startles him out of his thoughts, the rhythmic pounding against the roof in harmony with the snowy static on the television screen. For a moment his heart speeds up with the hope that it might be Cameron, that she might have changed her mind and decided to involve him somehow in the day's work on the case, at her mercy despite his newfound disillusionment. But he knows rationally that she has been in Portland since the morning, that she would have called instead of driving back. He swallows a foolish sense of disappointment when he finds Barnes in the hall outside his room instead.

"Wow." Barnes looks taken aback. "You look like crap, Dr. Chase. Are you sick again?"

"I'm fine," says Chase flatly, running a hand through his hair. The truth is that he has not bothered to change after getting caught in the rain, and now feels embarrassingly rumpled, as though his appearance belies his personal failings this morning.

"I need your help," says Barnes, evidently satisfied with that response.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" asks Chase, suddenly irritated with the interruption. Eager for a distraction before, now he wants nothing more than to be left alone with his thoughts, to hide from the world this newfound shame, the senseless hope he's allowed to seduce him, to break down the defense of indifference he's spent so many months building up.

"Yes," says Barnes, glancing around the hallway as though someone might be looking for him here. "But that's why I need your help."

"I'm off the case," says Chase, sourly. "You heard Director Cohen last night. She thinks House's methods are irrelevant. And Dr. Cameron asked me to stay uninvolved as well."

A strange look crosses Barnes's features, a sort of mischievous, calculating glimmer which at first glance seems entirely inappropriate to the situation. He would appear cunning, if Chase had any reason to believe him capable of such a characteristic.

"What?" Chase presses, unnerved.

"Well, that's sort of the point, isn't it?" asks Barnes, slowly.

"What point?" Chase crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, feeling increasingly bewildered, as though somehow his fate remains entwined with this case, despite the order for him to cease participation.

"You got thrown off the case," says Barnes, "but you're still here. You haven't even packed anything. Which means that you're staying for a reason. And if you're really determined to follow orders and not be on the case, then that means you're sticking around because you still want to impress Dr. Cameron."

"Who said anything about Cameron?" Chase straightens abruptly. He never would have expected Barnes to make this sort of deduction, though he sees now that he and Cameron have both been more than transparent enough.

"You just did, actually," says Barnes, grinning. "Come on, Dr. Chase. I'd have to be blind to not notice that you want to impress her. And I know she doesn't make that very easy for anyone."

"Cameron's my colleague," says Chase, firmly. "That's all. We worked together a long time ago. This was just—a coincidence."

"Okay," Barnes answers, but it's obvious he isn't convinced. "But even if she's _just_ your colleague, I know you want to help her out."

"What is it that you want me to do?" asks Chase, growing tired of the effort required to conceal the true mire of emotions which now surround the case in his mind. "Last time you asked me for help, it was breaking into the church. I'm not doing that again. Cameron wants to stick to protocol, and I'm not gonna risk undermining it right now."

Barnes shakes his head emphatically. "No, no, nothing like that, don't worry. The Director had her tech team go through and collect samples from all the homes of the protestors this morning, after they'd been sent to quarantine in Portland. Now she wants me to test them all, and have results by tonight."

"That's ridiculous," says Chase, instantly imagining the sheer volume of material that must have been collected from that many households. "They want you to do it by yourself?" He is intimately familiar with all-nighters in the lab, one facet of the job which has stayed with him through all of the years and apathy.

"It's obviously a test," Barnes answers, shaking his head. "Set us up to fail, maybe frustrate us into making careless mistakes. Put me in a position to have nobody listen when I try to defend Dr. Cameron at her peer review. But the Director's in Portland today, dealing with the quarantine."

"So you want me to help you look like Super Doctor," says Chase, a slow smile spreading over his face. Barnes is right, he realizes. And this seems the perfect opportunity to prove himself more than House's puppet.

"Well, Super Epidemiologist, technically," says Barnes, grinning in return.

—

_7:34 P.M._

_December 5, 2012_

_Oceanview High_

_Oceanview, OR_

Chase has settled into a rhythm of manual work, of loading micropipettors and depositing their contents neatly into the miniscule plastic well plates, when Cameron returns to the lab. He has lost the residual anxiety over being discovered in their joint deception, has become so lulled into comfort by the familiarity of this task that he does not even look up when the door opens, doesn't realize that anything is amiss until she is standing behind him.

"I thought I asked you to stay away from the case," she says quietly, having waited until he's finished his current row of wells and rested the pipette safely on the counter. She does not sound angry anymore, merely exhausted and a little defeated, the sort of tone he's come to recognize as her current neutral.

"He tried," Barnes pipes up quickly. "He was staying in his room and everything. But I went and convinced him to help me." He has just finished filling his own plate, and takes a moment to carefully cover it with protective film, setting it with the others, lined up to be put into the thermocycler.

Cameron sighs, making an exasperated motion with her hands before dropping heavily onto one of the stools at the lab counter. "Should I even bother to ask why? I mean, I get that I'm not your direct superior anymore, but I don't see how that gives everyone permission to automatically ignore _anything_ I request."

"We're trying to help," Chase interrupts. "Just like before. _You_ might think your career is over, but that doesn't mean we're going to sit here and watch you throw it away."

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence," Cameron answers icily, obviously taking offense at his explanation.

"You told me to stay out of the investigation, and I am," Chase continues stubbornly. "But does that mean I have to just sit on my hands? Barnes asked me for help where he needed more manpower, and I'm more than willing to give it. There is no risk to what I'm doing here. I think even Dr. Cohen would be hard pressed to find fault with my helping test materials."

"I don't care!" Cameron presses two fingers to her temples, taking a heavy breath and visibly trying to calm herself. "I don't—actually care that you're in here running tests. You're right, they need to be done, and I'd be an idiot to think one person can do them in decent time. I just—You couldn't have asked me? Or at least told me what you were doing? _This_ is why I can't trust you. This sneaking around, trying to protect me. I don't _want_ to be protected."

Chase exhales slowly, feeling the weight of the past three years settle on his back once again. "And now we're not talking about today anymore, are we?"

Cameron doesn't answer, straightening a stack of papers on the counter in front of her and refusing to meet his eyes. Barnes, too, has grown very quiet, leaning forward in his chair as he observes them, as though unsure whether he should stay here or leave. Chase momentarily considers insisting that Cameron speak to him in private, but then decides to let her make that choice.

"Last time I tried to be honest with you, it didn't go so well, did it?" he presses, as calmly as possible.

"You mean last time, after you lied to me and kept me in the dark for _weeks_? Because you thought you couldn't trust me? That I couldn't handle the truth? No, that _didn't_ go so well, Chase." Cameron crosses her arms, leaning forward on the stool.

Wordlessly, Barnes gets to his feet, changes out the plates in the thermocycler, and leaves.

"I _was_ wrong," Chase admits, taking another breath. "I was wrong in how I handled it. I never meant for you to get hurt, and I think you know that. I did it to protect myself, and it _was_ selfish of me. But—that's not what's happening now."

"How is it so different?" asks Cameron. "We're not even together, and you're making decisions that affect both of us. Affect me. You think you know what I need, but what I need is for you to be honest. I _want_ to believe I can trust you again. But I can't take that risk."

"Would you have let me help you?" Chase gets to his feet, unable to sit still any longer. "If I had told you what I wanted to do today, would you have agreed? Because I see you running yourself into the ground here, Allison, and I can't let you do that. You want to be tough, to do everything alone so you can't be hurt again. I get it. But you're not taking care of yourself, and someone has to. So if that means you can't trust me, then I'm willing to make that sacrifice. I just need to know that you're all right."

Cameron looks up at him slowly, tentatively, as though expecting to be hurt somehow in the process. "I'm sorry," she says, very softly.

"Why?" whispers Chase. He cannot read the vulnerability in her eyes, but senses that this moment is somehow crucial, a fundamental shift in the eternal balancing act of their relationship.

But before she can answer, there is the sound of voices in the hallway outside, of footsteps rapidly approaching and Barnes's unintelligible complaints.

"You can't go in there!" he yelps, still a few feet off, but the door swings open anyway.

Chase sees Cameron go rigid first, hears her sharp intake of breath. Turning around slowly, he expects to find himself confronted once more by the imposing figure of Martha Cohen. Instead, House is standing in the doorway, a bemused smile twisting his lips upward.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	25. Chapter 25

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Five

_8:03 P.M._

_December 5, 2012_

_Oceanview High_

_Oceanview, OR_

For one breathless moment, they all stare at one another in silence, across the lab as though looking down a battlefield. Chase senses instantly the gravity of disaster this spells; he feels as though he has betrayed the team somehow, though he has done nothing to prompt House's journey out here. But he knows Cameron will see the blame as his, will view this as positive confirmation of all her fears.

"Don't look so excited to see me," says House. He makes his way across the lab quickly, bending over Chase's shoulder as though genuinely interested in the tests he's running. Really it's about presence and control, and Chase senses it immediately, as though being away from House has made all the strategy more apparent.

"What are you doing here?" asks Chase, taking a step back. He feels as though House might be able to exert his own gravity, influencing everyone else in the room. He has never felt in control of his fate when House is around. He wonders momentarily whether this is the danger Cameron had seen in her leaving.

"I don't know about you," says House, clearly enjoying this, "but I heard a rumor that some people here were dying of a really weird virus. Thought I might come check it out, seeing as I'm a big fan of infectious diseases."

"We're off the case," says Chase firmly. "You shouldn't be here."

"Maybe you should've thought of that before you called and asked me for help." House grins predatorily.

Cameron gets to her feet and crosses her arms, her stance filled with the potential for immediate escape. For a moment Chase thinks she might simply walk out, judgments made, but a thread of hesitation keeps her in the room.

"I didn't ask for your help," says Chase tightly. He has the feeling that the way he responds now does not matter; House is a master of manipulation, and he's clearly come here with an agenda. Yet through the anxiety comes a remnant of confusion, reminding him that House is not a sadist, that he has never acted with the sole intention of harming others. He undoubtedly has some reason for doing this, yet Chase cannot shake the feeling of betrayal.

"Oh, you didn't?" says House lightly. "Because I thought you all were floundering around like fish out of water while Nipah runs through the population. Your whole operation here is a cry for help."

"We're fine," says Cameron, her voice edged with deadly precision. "And you need to leave. You're violating government orders by being here."

"Dr. Cameron." House turns, as though becoming aware of her presence for the first time. "Long time no see. How's things? Enjoying the good life away from the evil of Princeton-Plainsboro?"

"Get out, House," Cameron repeats.

"What's wrong?" House feigns momentary sympathy, his expression a mask of condescension. "I thought you'd be living the high life by now. I mean, you got everything you wanted, right? Got away from me. Got away from Chase. Walked away from your marriage like it never happened, and your husband didn't even have to die this time."

"Get out," says Cameron, for the third time, then seems to realize how absurdly understated that response is. "Get out right now, or I'm calling the police."

But House continues unfazed, wordlessly calling her bluff. "You know, some people would call you lucky. You got _another_ chance at a new beginning. But this time, you didn't even try. You ran away, shut everyone out, took a job that would allow you to be as isolated as possible. You don't _want_ to be happy. And you never will be, because every time things look like they might be going well, you run away. You think being with Chase is turning you into me? I think you've done a _damn_ good job all on your own."

For a moment Cameron regards him in silence, her eyes cloaked in an unreadable darkness. "Are you finished?" she asks at last, then strides quickly from the room before he can answer.

—

_8:30 P.M._

_December 5, 2012_

_Oceanview, OR_

By the time Chase gets back to the hotel, the rain is coming down in icy sheets, big bloated drops striking with such force that they make him feel suffocated as he runs from the parking lot into the lobby. For all of the rain he has seen in Oceanview, none of it has come close to the violence of this storm. He curses the few minutes it's taken him to get out of the lab, to ensure that Barnes will be able to finish the tests on his own, to take the risk of leaving him alone with House.

When the old elevator hesitates, he takes the stairs two at a time up to Cameron's room, breathless as he pounds on the door. Getting no response, he pulls out his cell phone and dials her number, listening to his heart racing in his temples. He is certain that she will simply hang up on him, or refuse to take the call. Instead, her phone goes straight to voicemail. It is only then that Chase remembers he has her spare card key in his pocket from the previous night. The door swings open on an empty room, her phone lying in the pooled bedsheets. He lets it slam shut, already halfway down the hall when he hears the latch catch. She is not in his room either, though he checks out of desperate hope.

Chase cannot say what it is that draws him down the path to the beach; later, he will not remember how he'd even ended up outside again. He knows he's reached the end of the path when he feels the give of wet sand under his feet, the sound of the rain drowning out the roar of the sea. It is too dark to see much of anything, the lights from the hotel parking lot above dampened out of view. Stumbling along, he locates the rough edge of the cliff bank with his fingers, following it along parallel to the edge of the ocean. Slowly his eyes begin to adjust, until he can make out shapes in the darkness.

He finds Cameron huddled against the same outcropping of rock where he'd seen her weeks ago, on Thanksgiving day. He remembers how fortuitous it had seemed then, finding her out here at the edge of the world. Tonight it feels different still, more than luck, perhaps the faint glimmer of a larger power he has not dared consider in years.

"Allison." He says it loudly enough to be heard over the rain, but she does not respond. Chase cannot see her face in the darkness, but he senses her tears, mingled with the torrential rain.

"I didn't call him," he tries again, desperate for her to believe him. If he cannot convince her that House's vitriol is not his own, everything is lost, Chase thinks. "I mean, I _did_ call him, but it was only to tell him we're off the case. And I didn't even talk to House, I talked to Foreman. I had no idea he was going to come here and say any of that to you."

"It doesn't matter," Cameron says at last, so quietly that he almost misses the words beneath the sounds of the storm and the sea.

"But it does matter," Chase insists. "What he said—"

"Was true," Cameron interrupts, harshly. "I know that you know that."

"It wasn't true!" Chase raises his voice over the storm, a rare flash of lightning revealing her face for a split second. He has never seen her look this way before, her hair plastered to her cheeks, her eyes alight with fathomless despair. "It was just—horrible."

"I used to think it didn't matter," says Cameron, ignoring him. The rain has begun to let up ever so slightly, the light from the parking lot above making the night a little less opaque now.

"What?" asks Chase, taking a step closer into the meager shelter of the rocky overhang. Here, at least, it is sheltered from the wind.

"Being—happy." Cameron takes a breath with difficulty, shivering violently, and Chase wonders momentarily how long she has been out here. "I used to think—good people deserved some kind of a fairytale happy ending. Life's not like that. I was an idiot to ever think it might be true."

"Allison—" Chase reaches for her hand, but she moves away violently.

"I knew I was wrong after my husband died," she continues, voice rising, utterly uninhibited at last. "The best I could hope for was to be satisfied. Be good at my job. Have someone depend on me, even if it was just to answer mail or finish paperwork."

"Allison," Chase tries again, suddenly afraid to hear where this is going. He feels her words with physical pain, as though she is speaking with the power of the lightning flashing out over the horizon.

"You made me believe there could be something else!" Cameron shouts over the howling of the wind as it rips through the jagged edges of the rocks. "You pushed and you pushed and I thought—" Her voice breaks into a sob, and Chase steps closer again.

This time she does not resist when he finds her hand, her skin deeply chilled by the rain. "Thought what?"

"I thought you'd saved me." She grips his hand with painful force, as though it is the only thing preventing the wind from carrying away the broken shell of her soul. "But I couldn't hold onto it, and now there's—"

This time, Chase doesn't let her finish, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her despite her protest. Her entire body is sodden and frigid, as though she is a wraith recently emerged from the sea.

"There's nothing," she chokes against his ear. "When I think about the future there's just _nothing_ left."

"Hey," Chase murmurs, choking down tears of his own. "I love you." It is the only thing he can offer now, the only thing he knows to say with any hope to counter the barrenness of her world. "I love you. I love you. I love you." He knows it in this moment unequivocally.

Cameron doesn't answer him, still sobbing convulsively, her breath a warm shock against his neck. Chase tightens his arms around her, becoming truly aware for the first time of the sharp chill, of the way it aches deep in his bones. The rain is still falling, making everything feel saturated and too heavy, dripping off his hair, his eyelashes, the soggy folds of his clothes. They are in real danger of hypothermia out here, he realizes, now that the first desperate panic has faded. He can only guess how long Cameron has been in the cold, the toll this day has already taken on her body.

"Come on," Chase coaxes gently, keeping his arm around her shoulders as he turns back toward the path. "We need to get inside."

She remains quiet, allowing him to guide her. Cameron is shockingly unsteady on her feet, and Chase shifts closer, concerned. She says nothing when they get back to the hotel, leaning against the wall of the elevator, and nothing as he leads her into his own room. She looks profoundly fragile under the old fluorescent light in the bathroom, her eyes bruised, her skin so pale it looks almost blue. She says nothing as he runs water in the tub, hot enough to raise steam, as though this downpour could somehow overpower the storm outside. Her hands shake as she peels off her clothes. There is a striking vulnerability to the way she tests the water with her toes, shivers once, slips into it slowly, letting it envelope all of her scars. And she says nothing as he sinks down behind her, pulling the weight of her body back against his and burying his nose in her wet hair. She turns over her shoulder, kissing him almost hesitantly, her lips still deceptively cold. Cameron laces their fingers and closes her eyes, resting her ear over his heart. The silence settles all around, like the semblance of peace not yet arrived, but no longer so very far off.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated! ;)


	26. Chapter 26

TITLE: The Long Count (26/34)

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six

_5__:57 A.M._

_December 6, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

This night, Chase dreams of the boat again, as he had on his first night in Oceanview, its flimsy hull the only thing keeping him from the depths of the sea. The dark waters swirl around him in an unfamiliar pattern, the little boat spinning in a hapless circle. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but then he realizes what it is that's disturbing the waves. Scarcely a hundred feet away, a giant whirlpool has formed, a monstrous thing of ancient myth, its gaping maw sucking down the sea. Chase knows that he ought to feel panic as he watches himself drift closer to a watery grave, but all he feels is a profound sense of peace. There is a beacon of light in the distance, he realizes suddenly, the answer to everything just around the next bend.

He wakes with a start the next moment, to Cameron's hand on his shoulder, and a feeble ray of sunlight slipping through the gap in the curtains.

"You okay?" she asks softly, her voice still a little hoarse from the previous night's ordeal. "You were making noises in your sleep." She looks exhausted still, though not as drained as when he'd helped her in from the storm.

Chase nods slowly, frowning. "Think so. Weird dream. What about you? Last night was—" He finds that he does not have a word for it, still lost in the intensity of raw emotion.

"I'm okay," says Cameron, though she sounds as if she has not yet completely convinced herself.

"You sure?" asks Chase, sitting up a little and running his hand along the bare expanse of her back. She is still naked from the previous night; there is an intimacy about this moment he has not felt since their marriage. Her hair has dried in disheveled waves, softening the lines of her face.

Cameron shrugs. "It doesn't matter, right? I still have to function today. There's still an epidemic in Oceanview, and I still have responsibilities, even if it's just lab work. I can't—call in _sad_ to work."

"You can tell me," he offers, feeling breathless again at her admission. "We've got a few hours still."

Cameron swallows visibly, then looks away. "I don't want to think about work right now."

"Okay." Chase shifts closer to her, brushing his lips over her temple. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Cameron closes her eyes, nodding slowly, leaning into him. He tangles their legs, slipping an arm under her shoulders and resting his forehead against hers. She makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, simply breathing into the stillness for a moment. Swallowing a rush of emotion, Chase kisses her slowly, desperate to make the reality of her world fall away.

"There's no future for us," she murmurs against his ear, sounding suddenly desolate. "You have to know that. I—gave that up, too."

"Allison," Chase whispers, tightening his arm around her shoulders. "Don't go there now. Things—change. Nothing is written in stone right now."

"And you know I don't do very well with uncertainty." She pulls away gently, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling, sighing heavily. "I'm sorry. I know you're trying. I don't mean to keep pushing you away."

Chase smiles sadly, shifting to rest on his side so that he can see her face. "Nobody ever said this would be easy. I never thought it would even be possible."

"It's not fair to you," Cameron insists, her shoulders tensing. "None of this is fair to you."

"I'm not blaming you for what happened, Allison." Chase takes her hand gently, prompting her to meet his eyes. "We both made mistakes. Even if you can forgive me for Dibala—There's no excuse for the way I handled it. For what I did to you."

"But it was understandable." Cameron runs a hand through her hair, a gesture he has learned over the years to read as frustration. "I gave you no reason to believe I'd support you. God, I didn't even _know_ what was going on and I was ready to think the worst." She laughs once, bitterly, disgusted by herself. "I _actually thought_ you were having an affair."

"And I thought if I told you the truth, you'd feel obligated to turn me in to the police." Chase looks away, unable to see her response to this confession; even three years later, it seems the worst transgression of all.

"You were right," Cameron whispers, barely audible. "House was right. I—couldn't handle it. It was easy to blame the department. To blame him. To think that you and I could just move forward and leave what happened behind. And then, when you decided you couldn't do that, it was easier to pretend you'd become someone else. Someone I _couldn't_ love. Because if that was true—then I had nothing to lose by leaving."

Chase is silent, utterly unable to find the words. Three years ago he would have been angry at her, would have condemned her for giving in to these fears. Now he understands the sense of helplessness, how hard it can be to break free of the past.

"When I was married the first time, I knew what I needed to be afraid of," she continues, almost as though she is talking to herself now. "I knew exactly how it was going to end, so anything else that happened—it couldn't be worse. But with you, it was like—I kept waiting for things to go bad. I knew I wasn't ready to be married again. But—I didn't want to lose you. I wanted _so badly_ to believe everything you were saying was true. That we could be happy. I'm so sorry." Cameron turns away, hiding her face in her hands as she starts to cry again.

Chase wraps his arms around her from behind, resting his forehead in the curve of her neck. "It's okay," he answers softly, knowing now that he cannot blame her for what has happened. She has punished herself a dozen times over. "I just missed you."

Cameron sobs roughly, turning over in a rush to bury her face in his shoulder. "I love you so much. But I can't—promise you anything right now."

"That's okay," Chase whispers, kissing the top of her head. "Let's just take it one day at a time."

—

_9:03 A.M._

_December 6, 2012_

_Oceanview High_

_Oceanview, OR_

House is in the lab when they arrive, hovering over Barnes's shoulder. Chase wonders momentarily what happened after he left them alone the previous night, whether House now has a room at the motel or if he's decided to be cheap and sleep in one of the chairs in the teachers' lounge. Neither option would surprise him. He glances over his shoulder at Cameron, knowing he will not be doing her any favors if he tries to protect her from House, but concerned for her wellbeing nonetheless. This is a challenge she must surmount on her own; any attempts to intervene on Chase's part will only make things worse.

"Making friends?" Cameron asks Barnes, waiting for House to acknowledge her presence first. "I know you're a big fan."

"Dr. Cameron!" Barnes turns around in a rush, as though he has somehow not heard them come in, his face a mask of sheepish guilt. "Well, Dr. House was offering to help me with the tests. He says he knows a way to do them faster. But—I thought it would be better to stick with protocol, you know, just for now."

"Apparently he's more afraid of you than he is of me," says House. "I'm impressed. Who ever would've thought our little girl would actually learn to intimidate people."

"Who knows, maybe you're just losing your touch," Cameron retorts, then turns back to Barnes. "Do you have the results? Has Dr. Cohen been in yet?"

"Wow," House interrupts again. "Snippy. Yesterday you ran away and cried. Sex with Chase must be even better than I thought."

"Um, maybe I shouldn't be here," says Barnes, flushing bright red.

"The results, Harry," Cameron reminds him. "Do you have the test results?"

"Oh. Yeah. Right." Barnes scrubs a hand over his face, obviously tired from the long night in the lab. He rolls his chair over to the computer monitor which displays the readout from the thermocycler. "I finished a couple hours ago. Emailed them to Dr. Cohen, but she hasn't replied yet."

"That's nice," says Cameron, bitterly. "Play a game making us scramble for results, then don't bother to actually read them."

"You'll want to read them," says Barnes, typing rapidly, this task having restored some of his energy.

"I assume they're not all clean this time, then," says Chase, pulling a chair up to the counter and struggling to see over Barnes's shoulder. On the monitor, colored graph lines indicate the results of the tests, the presence or absence of Nipah virus genetic material in the samples. There are so many lines on the graph that it is difficult at first to tell what the results are showing. But then, as Chase manages to focus, a handful of lines stand out, climbing higher on the graph than the flat mass at the negative baseline. These are positive, he knows instantly, and his heart speeds up.

"No, they're not," answers Cameron, reading the graph as well. Her voice has dropped into the hushed tone which Chase recognizes as alarm. This is the first evidence they have had that the virus is able to spread by surface contamination, and it is certain to spell disaster.

"At first I thought it might just be an anomaly," says Barnes. "Maybe the probe binding to something else, a glitch on the computer. But—there's more than one here. And I did the tests is real contamination we're seeing."

"Is there a pattern?" asks Cameron, leaning closer. She seems focused again with the direction of this new evidence, filled with a fresh determination.

"Sort of," says Barnes, "but I don't know how to make any kind of sense of it." He points at the highest four peaks on the graph, each separated only by a narrow sliver of white space. "These are all from kitchen countertops, in four different homes." He pauses, scrolling the graph to the right and pointing at two more peaks. "These are from living room tables. And these three are from the trash. Each one is from a different household. You tell me how that makes sense."

"Are they from households where symptomatic case patients were living?" asks Cameron, frowning.

"Well, it's hard to say," says Barnes. "At the time these samples were taken, no one from any of these households had been hospitalized. But some of these people have started showing symptoms since entering quarantine, right?"

Cameron nods.

"And considering the attitude of the original group in the church, they might not have reported an illness," says Chase.

"Right," Barnes agrees. "So all we can say is that they _might_ have come from homes where someone was symptomatic."

"We've been testing samples from the quarantine room at Tillamook General regularly," says Cameron, brow furrowed. She gets up again, pacing halfway across the lab before returning. "They've all been negative. They're still negative. And so were the samples you two got from the church, right?"

"Right." Chase leans back in his chair, watching her, surprised that House is still quiet. He is sitting back watching them, as if simply assessing their ability in this situation.

"The virus is mutating?" It is more a suggestion than a question, though Cameron sounds as though she does not want to believe her own theory.

"I don't think so," says Barnes. "We'd have do more tests to confirm, but the probe we used for this round is very specific for picking up Nipah genetic material. If the viral genome had changed, I don't think it would show up as strongly as it does here."

Cameron's frown deepens. "Then either we've been missing it in our previous tests—"

"Or not all symptomatic patients are shedders," Chase finishes. "That would be consistent with results from the earlier South Asian outbreaks."

"What if _no one_ who's symptomatic is a shedder?" asks Cameron, crossing her arms as though this thought has thrown her physically off-balance.

"You think maybe people only shed virus while they're incubating it, before they're sick enough to know?" Barnes looks truly terrified at this possibility. "We'll never be able to contain it."

"Or the shed virus isn't coming from the people," says House, breaking into the conversation at last.

"As opposed to what?" Cameron snaps, irritated with the question only because it is coming from him.

"Well, let's see," says House, tone rich with contempt. "What might you expect to find in the kitchen, the living room, and the trash?"

"Food," answers Chase, the pattern suddenly seeming obvious. "Most likely takeout."

"Good to know I've still got you trained," says House sarcastically.

"The diner!" yelps Barnes, suddenly. "We were still supposed to question Cunningham again."

"I'm sure your superiors will be _thrilled_ with that suggestion," House tells Cameron snidely.

"What exactly are you suggesting?" she presses, standing her ground.

"You need someone to check out the diner," says House. "But you know your superiors won't 'find any merit in that approach.' Lucky for you, Dr. Chase and I don't have to worry about _protocol_."

"So you're actually _volunteering_ to go to the diner for me?" Cameron narrows her eyes. "What do you want, House? I'm not stupid enough to think you don't have an agenda."

House snorts. "Wow, you _are_ growing up. I know this is probably shocking to you, but I actually _don't_ glean any pleasure from watching a pandemic unfold."

"Maybe he _is_ human," Cameron shoots back, then sighs. "Okay. But if you get involved, you're doing it on my terms. If I don't like what you're doing, I can report you for interfering with a government operation. I don't have a job left to lose."

House stares at her for a moment, a sly smile spreading over his lips. He lifts a hand in a sharp salute. "Yes, Ma'am."

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	27. Chapter 27

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven

_9:40 A.M._

_December 6, 2012_

_Deep Sea Diner_

_Oceanview, OR_

From the moment they get into the car, Chase wishes he'd never left the lab. He knows better than to let House tackle this assignment alone; like Cameron, he does not trust House to be acting without an agenda. Yet he feels overwhelmed by House's presence in the passenger seat of the rental car, as though all of his resolve to escape the department's influence has instantly vanished. There was a time when he'd craved nothing more than House's approval, when he would have viewed this sort of assignment as a reward. Now he remembers dimly the heady feel of freedom that had come with being fired, with the sense that he'd escaped that dependence at last. Only now is he beginning to see how deeply entrapped he has allowed himself to become, no longer welcoming or even trusting House's judgment, but at its mercy nonetheless.

"Surprised you decided to join me," says House, as Chase starts the car. "See, I thought you'd be all about staying at the lab with Cameron."

"What, and let you go investigate the diner by yourself?" Chase glances sideways at House, pulling out of the parking lot. "You don't even know where it is."

"I have GPS," says House, as though Chase has just made the silliest statement imaginable. "I can go anywhere I want."

"Fine," says Chase, already weary of this cat-and-mouse game. "You could have found it. You don't need me for anything. But Cameron wants me here to make sure you do what you say you will, and I agree with her. You've said it yourself. You don't do anything unless you're working some kind of an angle."

"Interesting." House turning to look out the window. He says nothing further, but it is obvious that he is simply waiting to be asked.

It is a power play, and Chase wants nothing more than to resist. Still, there seems always an inherent danger in ignoring House's opinion, and he is all too aware that they do not have much more time in the car before they will arrive at the diner. They cannot afford to go into this situation at odds with one another.

"Fine," Chase repeats tersely, frustrated now. "What's interesting?"

"Three years ago, you trusted me more than you trusted your wife," says House. "And you threw away your marriage to prove it."

"What's your point?" Chase snaps; the words sting undeniably, hard as he is trying to remain unaffected by this conversation. "Or is this just about rubbing my nose in it? I made a mistake. I get it."

"Did you?" asks House. "Three years ago, you chose to stay because you decided your connection to your job was stronger than your marriage."

"And I was wrong," Chase insists, trying to concentrate solely on driving. These are the last thoughts he wants to be having now, particularly after his pre-dawn conversation with Cameron. He is aware of the potential for disaster if he lets himself be led down the wrong path again.

"You were?" House has that knowing look on his face again, alerting Chase that he has taken the bait magnificently. "Or are you forgetting that she left you? Just packed up a bag and walked out, if I remember correctly. And all you wanted was to keep your job. Imagine if you'd gone to Chicago with her. Do you really think she would have stayed with you then?"

"Yes." Chase clenches his teeth, pulling into the parking lot of the diner. He wants to simply get out of the car and immerse himself in the case, but knows that House is not finished with whatever point he is trying to make. If he escapes now, he will only be delaying the rest of this conversation for a later, potentially more damaging time.

"Are you sure?" asks House. "You think she would have stayed with you when she realized she'd given up everything to be with a murderer? I think you _knew_ she couldn't cope. You _knew_ that if you went to Chicago, you'd end up alone, and with nothing."

"Shut up!" Chase explodes at last, unable to simply sit back and listen to these things. Even now, he cannot truly make sense of the way he'd rationalized choosing a job over his marriage then. But he cannot help thinking of Cameron's confessions only a few short hours ago; regardless of how her views have changed during the intervening years, he is forced to admit to himself that House is correct. Still, he resists speaking these things aloud, feels that they represent a personal failing.

"What?" House feigns innocence. "Oh, did I say something upsetting?"

"I decided to stay in Princeton because I knew I needed to face what I'd done," says Chase, glancing around the parking lot. The brunch crowd is beginning to arrive; if they stay here in the car much longer, they will start to attract the sort of attention which could put the investigation in jeopardy.

"That's funny," says House. "Because I haven't seen you doing any of that. Unless the demons you're trying to face are lots of girls and alcohol. In that case, bravo. Fantastic job."

"Why are you here?" Chase demands, too frustrated to continue trying to simply wait this game out. "You claim you're just here to help us with the case, but all you've done so far is mess with me and Cameron. From the very beginning of this assignment, you've set us up to be your pawns. What do you want? Is there actually a point to all this, or is it just about you torturing us because you don't think there's any such thing as a healthy relationship? My mistake was listening to you three years ago. Letting you get into my head. My relationship with Cameron is _my_ business. If you want to work on the case, then fine. But leave us alone."

House smiles, slowly. "That's what I wanted to hear." Not giving Chase a chance to speak further, he turns and gets out of the car.

—

_7:29 P.M._

_December 6, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

"This is completely out of control," says Cameron, as soon as Chase has closed the door of the hotel room behind her. She shrugs out of her lab coat and runs a hand through her hair.

"What happened?" Chase feels a wave of trepidation at her words; it is not like her to be so openly flustered. He is still reeling from the morning's investigation at the diner, from House's lecture in the car. He wants nothing more than to reassure himself of things between them, if only in the current moment. But that would be absurd now, he knows. The case must always take precedence.

"Everyone who was at the protest is becoming symptomatic," says Cameron, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. "_Everyone_. And it's only been two days. So—we can't say for sure whether they got infected at the protest, or if they were already incubating the virus that morning."

Chase sits beside her, slipping an arm around her shoulders. Cameron pauses for a moment, looking at him in surprise, as though suddenly aware that she is no longer at the hospital, no longer bound by the constraints of professionalism. She seems to shrink in this moment, the tension in her shoulders shifting to collapse inward.

"It'll be okay," says Chase, uselessly. He knows the moment he has said it how futile the words are; Cameron has never been one to appreciate wishful platitudes, and they are already beyond the point of anything being all right at all.

"You and House went to the diner?" she asks, ignoring his attempt at distraction, unable to stray from the case for more than a moment.

"Yeah," says Chase, relieved to have a direction for this conversation. "We got the samples. Barnes is testing them now. We decided it was best to have him in the lab alone. Easier to pass off if someone walks in."

"Did you talk to Cunningham?"

Chase shakes his head. "He wasn't there. House pretended to be a health inspector. Although I guess we can't really be sure what the other employees might tell him about us being there."

Cameron sighs heavily. "Let's just hope they don't decide to run to the press."

"It's a risk we have to take, though," says Chase. "I mean, that's the whole point, right?"

"But it's pointless if we get caught before we've accomplished anything," Cameron insists, still looking anxious.

"Allison," Chase soothes, feeling helpless once more. "Don't go there unless there's a reason. Right now there's not."

The knock on the door is so ironically timed that Chase nearly laughs aloud, though the sound sends a wave of panic through him. For a moment it seems as though the universe is mocking him for attempting any sort of control or reassurance in this situation. But when he opens the door, he finds House and Barnes standing there, a momentary relief.

"Told you," says House to Barnes, as soon as he's caught sight of Cameron, still seated on the edge of the bed.

"Dr. Cameron," says Barnes apologetically, as though sensing that they have interrupted something private. "We tried to call you, but you weren't answering your phone, so then Dr. House wanted to come here."

Cameron looks surprised, momentarily disoriented. "I guess I left it in my room," she says finally. "I take it you finished the tests."

"Yes!" Barnes moves toward the bed, as though intending to sit on it, then seems to realize how inappropriate that would be, and chooses the chair at the small desk instead. "That's why we're here."

House watches this interaction with interest, then deliberately sits down next to Cameron, who gives him a look which seems a mix of disdain and anxiety.

"So are you going to tell me the results," she asks, "or are we just going to play musical chairs?"

"We got one positive," says Barnes excitedly, "from one of the samples you took on the countertop in the diner's kitchen."

"And you confirmed it?" Cameron leans forward, making an effort to ignore House as she looks past him.

House retaliates by waving his cane in her face, but this time she does not react, focused still on the results from the diner.

Barnes's face falls a little at this. "Well, no. It was just one. And we couldn't replicate it. But—it was such a strong result that one time!"

Cameron sighs. "Harry, I know you know the procedure. If you can't replicate the result, we have to think it's a false positive."

"If it was a false positive, then we don't know anything!" Barnes protests.

"Well, I'd be confident in saying _that_ statement is correct," says House.

"Thank you!" says Barnes, then seems to realize what he's just agreed with. "Wait."

"Did you have something to contribute?" asks Cameron, turning to House at last. "Or are you just here to mock my team? Because if that's the case, then you can leave."

"You know how I feel about procedure," says House.

"I know you have no respect for protocols or guidelines," Cameron shoots back.

House grins, as though she's just given him a particularly nice compliment. "Exactly. We have a positive result. We should assume it means something."

"But if it can't be replicated, it's probably a false positive," Cameron argues. "What other explanation is there?"

"We got lucky," says House. "As unlikely as that seems. If that sample had only a miniscule amount of virus in it, and it wasn't completely uniformly mixed—"

"I mixed it!" says Barnes.

"Let's assume for a minute that you're incompetent," House insists. "Because if that's the case, and you weren't perfect when you mixed the samples, it's possible that you just happened to get all of the virus in your first test."

"Fine," says Cameron, finally. "If we go with your rather dubious assumption—What does a single positive sample tell us?"

"We should interview the staff," says Chase. "Could be one infected cook or waiter. That would go along with the theory that people are shedders before they become symptomatic."

"But it wouldn't explain why there was only one positive sample," says Cameron. "You'd expect to find contamination lots of places, not just the kitchen."

"It's in the food." House says this with absolute certainty, though it is not at all clear how he has arrived at this deduction.

"And how would you know that?" asks Cameron, sounding exasperated. "We can't just make assumptions. You know how dangerous that is."

"Well, I don't know about you," says House, "but I've already made an ass of me."

Cameron rolls her eyes. "What are you suggesting?"

"Chase and I are taking another field trip tomorrow," says House. "And we're getting take-out."

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated! :)


	28. Chapter 28

TITLE: The Long Count (28/34)

WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight

_10:30 A.M._

_December 7, 2012_

_Oceanview High_

_Oceanview, OR_

Barnes and Cameron are waiting in the lab, both seated at the counter in silence as though there is nothing more to be said. Chase follows House through the creaky door, feeling claustrophobic behind the N95 mask they have each donned in the car. It feels like a pitiful defense should the takeout bags they are carrying be contaminated with virus. Still, he has to remind himself that it is not biologically easy to catch this disease now that they are informed, that the greatest danger lies in stumbling upon it without warning.

House drops the bag unceremoniously on the counter in front of Cameron, as though daring her to be close to its contents. "Dig in."

"Great," Cameron answers dryly, slipping on a pair of gloves and a mask of her own before touching the handle, gingerly carrying it across the lab to the biocontainment hood.

The hood beeps once, shrilly, as she raises the front glass panel, alerting everyone in the lab that its protective vacuum has been broken momentarily. The noise is replaced by the loud hiss of the negative pressure air seal. For a moment Chase feels as though he ought to be holding his breath, watching Cameron slide her hands into the hood's thick gloves. She obviously must agree with House that there is some likely merit in testing the food, or she would not be taking the risk of defying authority and performing it herself.

"God, it's quiet in here," says House loudly, stripping off his gloves and then dropping into one of the chairs, letting his cane clatter against the side of the counter. "You'd think we were testing for a plague or something."

"We _are_ testing for a plague," says Barnes, defensively, though he is still sitting idly. "I mean, not in the Biblical sense, maybe, but Nipah's a deadly virus. People in Oceanview have been dying for weeks now."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," says House, in a tone which might be sincerely contrite, were it coming from anyone else. "I must have misunderstood. See, I thought you CDC drones were familiar with sarcasm. How insensitive of me."

Barnes flinches as though he's been slapped, wilting visibly at House's mockery.

"Don't you have anywhere to be?" asks Cameron, irritably. "Someone to harass? Some property to trespass on?"

"Well, I _could_ go check out the beach," says House, clearly pleased at his success in drawing her attention. "I _have_ always wanted to learn how to surf. But that would be irresponsible of me, wouldn't it? I should be here in the lab with you guys, saving lives or whatever it is you do."

Cameron does not answer further, instead turning the tissue homogenizer on some boiled cabbage. The loud whine of its motor and blade combined with the softer sound of the vegetable tissue turning to liquid seems to drown out the tension in the room, at least for a few minutes.

"Hey," says House, as soon as it goes quiet again. "Have you two talked yet? See, I'd ask if you'd _slept_ yet, but we all know the answer to that."

"Stay out of it, House," Chase interrupts, suddenly remembering their conversation in the car the previous morning. He wonders now whether this is some sort of test for himself or for Cameron, whether House is looking for some further assertion of independence. It is hard to consider these things without feeling a fresh wave of bitterness, without further blaming himself for allowing House's meddling to contribute to the decay of his personal life.

"I'm guessing that means you haven't," says House, watching Cameron as she sprays the outsides of her sample tubes with undiluted ethanol and carries them to the large centrifuge in the corner. "Is that your solution now? Keep everyone at arm's length? Don't share anything?"

"My business with Chase is _my_ business," she answers coolly, leaning against the hard metal casing of the centrifuge as it does its work. "Give it up, House. You're not going to get us to play your game. We're here to work."

"Okay," says House, clearly not ready to give up.

He turns to watch Barnes as the centrifuge continues its long cycle, whistling as though he has no further cares in the world. Slowly, Barnes looks at House over his shoulder, as though able to physically sense the penetrating gaze fixed on the back of his head.

"Did Dr. Cameron ever tell you about the time I walked in on her and Chase playing doctor in the janitor's closet?" asks House, glancing around the lab to gauge the reactions.

Barnes instantly flushes crimson, his face a mixture of horror and fascination. "No," he stammers. "She didn't. But are you sure you should be—"

"What about the time she and Chase walked out on a patient to have sex in the sleep lab?" At this, Cameron looks visibly surprised, and House snorts. "Yeah, I knew about that. Only thing that would've kept Chase from going home to his nice comfy bed."

"I don't want to hear this," says Barnes, though he makes no move to leave or otherwise intervene. "It's not appropriate."

"You're right, it _was_ inappropriate," says House. "Just like that time Cameron decided to experiment with meth and called Dr. Chase to be her second course. Or that time they did the nasty in a patient's home." Something in his face changes then; this is a game, but it is meant to have serious consequences. Once again, Chase is reminded that House rarely does anything truly in jest. "And what about that one time that Dr. Cameron decided to leave my department and move halfway across the country because she learned that Chase faked a test to—"

"Shut up," Cameron interrupts sharply, the color suddenly drained from her face. "I don't know what you're trying to do here, but it needs to stop right now. This isn't a game to me. This is my life. It's not—a puzzle for you to play with. You walk around like you're on top of the world, like you know something the rest of us lowly humans missed out on. But you don't know the reality of my life. You don't even know how to take care of yourself. Maybe you should take a minute to focus on your own relationships before you try to teach anyone else a lesson."

Chase stands frozen, feeling too paralyzed by adrenaline even to breathe. He cannot bring himself to believe that House has nearly revealed the truth of his past crimes, wants to think that it was merely a ploy, a trick to get Cameron's attention. And yet the thrill of fear which still pulses through his body reminds him just how tenuous his sense of security still is, how large the demons of that year still loom.

He waits for House to respond, wondering if Cameron's outburst will end or prolong this test. He feels helpless once again as he had three years ago, waiting for judgment or absolution. But House's answer never comes. Instead, the door of the lab swings open, revealing the imposing figure of Martha Cohen standing in the hallway, her expression obscured by a full-face respirator mask.

—

_2:15 P.M._

_December 7, 2012_

_Oceanview Police Department_

_Oceanview, OR_

"They can't keep us here forever," says Barnes, his tone verging on a petulant whine.

The holding room at the Oceanview Police Department is scarcely more than a glorified closet, a room with concrete walls and floor, two thin benches running the length. They have done nothing to merit being held on legal grounds, but this is the closest thing the town has to a quarantine area. Still, it is almost a relief after the indignity of the decontamination shower which has been rigged by the CDC team in the high school's locker room.

"Of course they can," says Cameron darkly. "We had samples potentially contaminated with a deadly pathogen, and we were working with them in a high school lab on some borrowed equipment. Any one of us could be a biological time bomb right now."

They have all been given thin white gowns to wear, and in the unforgiving fluorescent light, Chase cannot help feeling as though he might be seeing the ghost of her illness, a glimpse of her as a true patient.

"But we had gloves and masks on!" Barnes protests. "You were working in the hood. You used ethanol on the outsides of the tubes. There's no way we actually got exposed. You know that. If it was that easy to get infected, the entire town would be sick already! The entire United States!"

"Harry, calm down." Cameron looks drained above all else. Chase finds himself surprised by this; in the past she would have been a pinnacle of anxiety, filled with fear for the implications to her job and to her own safety. Now, she looks simply defeated, too exhausted to do anything but sit and wait to face the consequences.

"I don't want to stay here!" Barnes launches himself halfway off the bench before taking a breath and settling again, though he continues to bounce his foot nervously against the floor. "That lab is the only facility they assigned us out here. That was where they intended for us to do all of the testing. And we were here to find the source of the virus, so we would _have_ to have had positive samples in that lab at some point, according to Director Cohen's own orders! It's not fair to say we're suddenly being unsafe now, just because she's here looking over our shoulders."

"_Someone_ did something _unfair_?" House gasps theatrically from his seat beside Barnes, who turns to glare at him.

"It _is_ unfair," Barnes repeats glumly. "Not to mention, we've worked in _much_ worse conditions in the field. It's not like we've got Level Four containment and negative pressure vacuums in the middle of the jungle."

"But this isn't the jungle," says Cameron, before House can take another stab. "We have facilities, and we could have taken more precautions than we did. But you're right, it's not fair. And that's the point, isn't it? Administration teaches us the protocol manual and then gives us these assignments. But they have no idea what it's like trying to do our jobs. How impossible it is to stick to protocol if we actually want to save lives. Then they come barging in, ready to string us up like we're reckless idiots for trying to make any kind of difference."

"You used to think _protocol_ saved lives," says House, breaking the momentary blanket of silence her outburst has cast. "You used to be the one lecturing the rest of us on how _rules_ are there to protect the patient."

"I was an _idiot_," Cameron answers bitterly.

House frowns, looking truly curious for the first time, as though his interest has finally been sufficiently piqued to move beyond the superficiality of his usual power game. "So now you've become enlightened? You don't seem very happy with your newfound knowledge."

Cameron laughs wryly, throwing up her hands. "What do you want me to say? That you've stripped me of my youthful naïveté? Killed my idealism? Congratulations, House. I am now officially a cynic."

"I don't think_ I_ did anything," says House. "You've always been your own worst enemy. You acted out of fear. Followed it halfway across the country, and then halfway across the world. Gave up every last shred of your personal life, because you thought it would be safer if all you had left was work. But then it turned out that work wasn't so simple either, and now you've got nothing left."

"On what evidence do you base that astute assumption?" Cameron crosses her arms, but Chase can still see the slight tremor in her shoulders.

"You used to care about your own safety," House answers simply. "You stuck to protocol for the good of your patients, but you did it for your own good, too. That part was healthy. And annoying. Now, I'd say your health is your last priority. In fact, if I didn't know better, I might say it seems like you don't particularly care whether you live or die."

Cameron is silent for a long moment, as though unsure how to respond. "Is that it?" she asks at last. "Or are you planning to psychoanalyze me for however long we're stuck in here?"

"That's it," House answers simply, leaning back and resting his head against the cool concrete wall.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	29. Chapter 29

TITLE: The Long Count (29/34)  
AUTHOR: enigma731  
PAIRING: Chase/Cameron  
RATING: M  
WARNINGS: Very vague spoilers for Season 7.  
SUMMARY: House's team is called upon by a CDC task force investigating a deadly viral outbreak. But pathogens are the least of Chase's concerns.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

_9:07 P.M._

_December 7, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

It is dark by the time they return to the motel, released at last from the holding room at the police department. It has taken eight hours for the CDC team to thoroughly test every piece of material in the lab, to determine twice-over that there is no trace of Nipah in the samples from the diner.

The negative tests ought to be a terrible disappointment, Chase knows, suggesting that the elusive lead of the previously positive diner samples was nothing more than a fluke. They are once more directionless, with no merit to show for the terrible risks they have taken. Still, he feels a guilty sense of relief to be free from the threat of extended quarantine, a comfort in returning to his room and being back in his own clothes.

Cameron has been kept back by Cohen, undoubtedly to be dealt yet more punishment. Concern for her sits heavily upon Chase's chest as he climbs into bed and switches on the television. Another mind-numbingly bad science fiction movie is playing, this one having something to do with a territory dispute between trolls. He wishes desperately that he could protect Cameron somehow, could be there to intervene. But he knows his presence would only serve to make things worse for her; he has already cost her enough through his own continued participation in the case.

Chase doesn't realize that he's fallen asleep until the hollow knock drags him from the depths of fitful dreaming. The clock reads 11:21 as he switches on the lamp, forces himself out of bed to answer the door. Cameron is standing in the hallway in a tanktop and sweatpants despite the cold, a grocery bag in her arms. Chase runs a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the lingering sense of unease from a dream he cannot remember. Cameron pushes past him as soon as he opens the door, moving to sit on the edge of the bed without a word.

"Are you okay?" asks Chase, following as the door swings shut behind him.

"Fine." Cameron pulls a bottle of vodka from the grocery bag and sets it on the night stand, instantly on her feet again, a flurry of motion as she circles the room. "Do you have cups in here?"

"Bathroom counter," Chase answers. He feels a fresh swell of concern for her, knowing that she could not possibly be so completely unaffected by the day's events. "What's going on?"

"I want to get drunk," she answers bluntly, setting the two hotel glasses down and pouring.

"Whoa." Chase catches her wrist as she fills the second glass a little over an inch. "You planning on mixing that with something? That's huge for a shot."

"I want to be efficient," says Cameron, not meeting his eyes as she caps the bottle.

"Efficient at getting drunk?" Chase asks incredulously. He is reminded suddenly of that night seven years ago, the first time she'd called him, of finding her wildly vulnerable with drugs and fear. He's never seen her drink anything but wine, and wonders whether she has any idea just how quickly vodka shots could send her into mindless oblivion. She has no experience losing her inhibitions, and a tendency to cross that line too far. "Allison. You're upset. This isn't a good idea."

Cameron snorts. "Because I'm upset? I want a distraction. Come on, Chase." She downs the contents of the first glass in a single gulp; her eyes water as she pushes the other into his hand.

"Drinking isn't a distraction," Chase insists, though he's painfully aware of just how little weight those words hold. Her cheeks are flushed now, eyes liquid black like the surface of the night sea in the dim lamplight. In this moment he sees the empty shards of broken empathy which drew him to her in the beginning, and feels the pull of the glass in his hand.

"You're full of shit," says Cameron, pouring again. "You actually expect me to believe that you haven't been doing the exact same thing lately? Or can you only drink with strangers at the bar?" She clinks her glass against his and takes another long swallow, smiling crookedly.

In the space of a breath, something breaks. Chase feels the sudden desperate need to be close to her, to push aside the fear which has continued to keep him more distant than in the past. It seems suddenly as though this might be a way to regain some piece of the lost time, to erase countless nights of anonymity at the bar, of stumbling home to pass out alone, the handful of failed relationships he'd tried to grant a better chance.

The vodka burns all the way down, and Chase coughs roughly. "Where the hell did you get this? You sure it's not actually paint thinner?" But he can already feel the warmth spreading through his chest; for this instant, things seem almost normal.

Cameron laughs, too loudly. "Not a lot of choice in the middle of the night." She sloshes a little over the rim of the glass as she pours him another and herself a third, movements already exaggerated and too loose.

They make it halfway through the bottle before Cameron abandons her glass, kissing him with such unexpected force that Chase loses his balance, falling back against the bed, which squeaks loudly. He can smell the alcohol on her breath as she straddles his lap, fumbling clumsily with the buttons on his shirt. He is struck by a fresh twinge of concern, the inevitable stirring of memories forever elicited by the mix of alcohol and despair. But he feels closer to her in this moment than he has since before their marriage, as though the torrent of emotions she has kept so carefully in check has finally been unleashed. He can see it in the fluidity of her movements, sense it in the hitch of her breathing as she presses him back into the bed.

Chase shrugs out of his shirt like shedding skin, rolls his head back against the pillows as she drags her lips along his neck. Slipping his hands beneath the hem of her shirt, he feels goosebumps rise along the warm expanse of her back. She lifts her arms as he pulls her tanktop over her head, undoes her bra after a momentary struggle. The alcohol lends an unfamiliar grace to her movements; she looks light as a dancer with the tension fallen away. Cameron grazes her teeth across his clavicle and Chase shudders, reminded again of that first time, how surprised he'd been to see the wildness consume her characteristic steadfast control.

She laughs huskily at his response, drawing his hand to her breast as she struggles to unbuckle his belt. Chase groans deeply as he circles the feather-soft skin of her nipple, lifting his hips so that she can dispose of his jeans. Breathing hard, Cameron moves off of him to wriggle out of her own sweatpants, kicking them off the foot of the bed, and giggling again when they knock over the empty trash can. Distractedly, she settles on her back along the other side of the bed, shivering as she runs her hand down her belly, rocking her hips as she begins to slowly stroke herself.

"Fuck," Chase whispers, grinding his erection into the mattress as he watches.

Cameron looks at him sideways, a devilish grin slowly spreading over her face. In his mind's eye, he imagines her this way on a thousand lonely nights around the world, wonders whether she would have been thinking of him then.

Unable to resist any longer, Chase rolls over, the room seeming to shift momentarily as he positions himself over her. Cameron looks up at him with an intensity of need that steals his breath. He sees written in her face the damage his decisions have wrought, the decades-old scars he'd only thought he'd managed to erase. Dropping his head, Chase kisses her very tenderly. Cameron makes a noise of impatience in response, taking hold of his hips. Letting her guide him, he slips inside of her, moving quickly. She wraps her legs around his waist, urging him deeper. Chase feels his head swim with the need for release, every sensation intensified by the alcohol. A few moments in, he is already having trouble maintaining a rhythm, knows that he will not be able to last long.

"Touch yourself," Chase whispers against her ear.

Cameron chuckles in response, a throaty, forceful sound which reminds him of how terribly long it has been since he has seen her truly happy. Clumsily, she slips her hand between them, fingertips brushing his cock as she finds her clit again, panting. She comes a moment later with a rough cry, the intensity of her orgasm sending him over the edge of his own climax. Chase collapses against her, gasping for breath, and she tangles her fingers in his hair, holding on hard.

He is uncertain how much time has passed when he gets up for a glass of water. Shutting the bathroom door behind himself, Chase splashes cold water on his face before filling the remaining two cups provided by the hotel. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror he pauses again, studying his own features for any sign of the profound change he's been feeling, as though the past three years might somehow be manifested in a physical scar. But there is nothing, and he feels strangely empty as he switches off the light. Cameron is sitting up in bed when he returns, wearing her tanktop and his boxers, and playing with the television remote.

"Drink this," Chase instructs, sitting gingerly beside her and holding out one glass of water.

Cameron shrugs it away. "I'm fine." Her words are still slightly slurred, betraying her. The heady energy of the alcohol seems to have abated, but the looseness in her movements remains.

"Yeah, but you won't be fine tomorrow if you don't drink this," Chase insists.

This time she accepts the glass and takes a small sip before setting it on the nightstand and resting her head on his shoulder, evidently having decided that they are watching an infomercial for weight loss supplements. Chase thinks for a moment that he ought to make her drink more of the water, but her weight against his side is mesmerizing, the familiar scent of her shampoo filling him with the need to be close to her, and he decides that there will be time later. Kissing the top of her head, he wraps his arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer. She leans into him, simply quiet for the space of a few breaths.

"I was in love with House," she says at last, her voice slightly muffled against his neck.

Chase tenses, feeling an unexpected thrill of panic. This is a fear he has spent years fighting down, wonders why she would choose now to make the confession.

"I don't think I want to hear this," he answers quickly.

But Cameron ignores him again, shaking her head a little as she finds his hand, playing with his fingers as she speaks. "I _was_ in love with him. Past tense. He was brilliant. Funny. Saved people's lives. And I—was afraid of falling in love again. Of getting hurt."

"So you fell in love with a manipulative ass who's practically got a monopoly on hurting people?" Chase asks, instantly regretting the bitterness of his tone. She is trying to tell him something, he reminds himself. He ought to be glad that she is talking at all, when all she's wanted this night was oblivion.

"Yes," she answers firmly, mindlessly stroking the pad of her thumb along the strip of skin where his wedding ring briefly rested. "That's the point. I knew he would never care about me. That he'd always be just backward enough to make me hate him a little too. It was—safe. Never going to go anywhere."

"Allison." Chase does not know what to say to this, cannot reconcile the idea that her conception of safety would also involve constant torment.

"I slept with you to make him jealous," says Cameron. She sits up a little to look him in the face, her pupils a gaping void in the dimness of the hotel room. "But I made a mistake. I thought you were safe, too. Not the kind of guy who'd ever want to settle down. Just in it for uncomplicated sex."

"Sex with you was _always_ complicated," Chase answers, wanting the words to sting as much as her confession does. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I wanted to die." Cameron straightens, hugging her knees. "When I was in the Congo last summer. When I gave away those pills. All those people had so much _hope_, and I—I was going to bed hoping I wouldn't wake up in the morning."

"God," Chase whispers, suddenly breathless, every trace of the anger that's been rising in the back of his throat washed away. Shakily, he laces their fingers, squeezing her hand lightly.

"I fell in love with you by accident," she says quietly. "Worse than by accident. I fell in love with you kicking and screaming, and resisting every way I knew how. And now—I've been coasting ever since I left you."

"I haven't exactly done much better," Chase offers gently, wishing there was something more to say.

"I want to be with you," says Cameron, stretching out on the bed again, still holding his hand. "That's all I know right now. But—I don't want it to be an accident this time."

"I love you," Chase murmurs, kissing her again, softly.

He is about to reach over her to turn out the lamp when there is the sound of something heavy hitting the window. Chase jumps, sitting up straight again.

"Must be windy," says Cameron, frowning. "Another storm? There're trees in the parking lot. Debris could blow around."

"We're on the third floor." Chase winces as he gets up, head pounding now. Cameron follows gingerly, watching over his shoulder as he pulls back the curtains.

For a few moments, nothing happens. There is no wind or rain; the night is clear and the treetops outside the window are still. But then, as his eyes adjust, he recognizes the leathery black form of a bat, listing drunkenly toward the glass in the darkness. Chase catches his breath as the animal collides with a sick thump before falling away.

"There's dozens of them," Cameron says from behind him.

It is only then that Chase looks down, at the patch of parking lot illuminated by the security lights. The pavement there is darkened by a multitude of black forms, all unmistakably in the throes of death.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	30. Chapter 30

**NOTE: Sorry this is late, guys! I got all caught up in finals and completely forgot what day it was yesterday. I think I'm going to switch to Wednesday posting for the last few chapters, though, because it will help me avoid needing to post while traveling. :) Also, only a few chapters left. I know I polled on this a while ago, but please let me know if you're still interested in a sequel!**

* * *

Chapter Thirty

_7:46 A.M._

_December 8, 2012_

_Oceanview High_

_Oceanview, OR_

The benefit of being officially off the case is that they are not expected to be with the team of emergency responders attempting to contain the dying bats. For the first time, Chase feels fortunate to be excluded from true responsibility; neither he nor Cameron would have been in any sort of shape to work in a potentially biohazardous situation. Still, he hardly manages to sleep, the remainder of the night steeped in anxious unrest that even the heat of the shower cannot wash away.

Cameron looks more miserable than Chase has ever seen her, slipping away to her own room just before dawn, leaving behind the half-empty bottle, glasses dried sticky to the surface of the nightstand, along with a note instructing him to meet her at the high school in a scant few hours. Driving there, Chase feels grateful to the rain blunting the sunlight as his head pounds. He has become accustomed to dragging himself to work after a night of drinking, is now too well aware that he shares his mother's ability to function, to feign normalcy. But this morning seems different somehow; his soul feels rubbed raw and laid bare. As he pulls his rental car into the school's parking lot, he wonders with a sick panic whether or not she remembers her own confessions of the previous night. He has never seen her truly drunk before, has no idea how she might react.

The rain is still falling as he gets out of the car, small misty drops more a heavy, saturating fog than a true downpour. Cameron stands huddled beneath the overhang of the school's roof, coat pulled tightly around herself, her eyes looking bruised with exhaustion and the night's ghosts.

"Hey," says Chase quietly, suddenly unsure how to approach her. He feels almost as though they are starting again as strangers, having so profoundly misunderstood each other for so many years. "I got your message."

"I was about to call you," Cameron admits.

Chase smiles faintly. "Didn't want to go behind enemy lines alone? I don't blame you."

Cameron rolls her eyes. "How encouraging of you to put it like that."

Chase shrugs, suddenly wanting to see her laugh. "Well, you're a superhero, remember? Time to go be heroic."

She snorts softly, but then shakes her head. "Then I guess my superpower must be alienating people."

"Hey." Chase takes her hand, squeezing briefly. "Don't do that. I need you on my side, and that doesn't work if you're beating up on yourself."

"You're sweet," says Cameron softly, shivering as the wind picks up momentarily, saturating them with the cold rain. "But I shouldn't have left practice. I thought I could make a difference here, give something back to my field. You were right. There's too many restrictions to do anything real. Maybe sometimes we can identify a pattern, learn something from the tragedy and prevent future outbreaks. That's supposed to be my job, right? But I can't justify the lives that have to be sacrificed in the name of protocol. They're asking us to depersonalize our patients in the interest of maintaining scientific rigor."

"Okay," Chase answers gently, understanding the significance of her choosing to admit these things, to voice them aloud at all. "But today our patients aren't human. They're bats. And even if you never work another case for the EIS, I'm pretty sure you'll want to be there if this one's about to be cracked."

Cameron bites her lip, then nods once. She looks as though she might be going to face a firing squad. "You're right. Let's go."

The lab on the long science hallway is scarcely recognizable, all of the colored displays torn away from the walls, leaving nothing but white cinderblocks and the overpowering chemical smell of disinfectant. Two police officers in starched uniforms stand at the end of the passage, unmoving even as they approach. Chase recognizes them from the previous day's wait in the station's holding cell. The doorway to the lab itself is tented in a mobile isolation chamber now, the clear synthetic walls rippling ever so slightly in the shifting current of the negative pressure air machine, sucking all particles of potential contamination back into the lab, which now eerily resembles a tomb. On the other side, a team in full HazMat suits works feverishly with an array of bat carcasses laid out on the long countertops in various stages of dissection. It looks like a macabre campsite.

"I need to speak with Director Cohen," says Cameron, as they come to a stop in front of the police detail. She sounds perfectly calm now, transformed once more into the seamless façade which projects nothing but professionalism.

"You'll have to wait," says the taller of the two officers. "She gave us specific instructions. No one goes in or out except on an emergency basis."

"This _is_ an emergency," Cameron insists. "I have information about the case which we need to discuss as soon as possible."

On the other side of the synthetic wall, Chase recognizes Barnes behind the thick face plate of a containment suit, his eyes and movements expressive as ever, even through the reflective plastic shield which masks most of his features. He clearly sees them and understands the importance of their purpose here, putting down his scalpel and gesturing to Cohen, who has been standing with her back to the doorway, overseeing the operation.

The police officer narrows his eyes; Chase wonders what Cohen might have told them, whether she would have known that Cameron would be unable to stay away from this latest development.

"Dr. Cameron, we are familiar with your history in this case," says the officer coldly. "Dr. Cohen informed us that you would likely feel the need to intervene this morning. I would be happy to take a message for her, but our instructions are to inform you that your presence here constitutes interference with government containment efforts. If you refuse to leave, we will arrest you."

From behind the containment wall, Barnes is arguing heatedly with Cohen, who still has not turned around or even acknowledged their presence in the hallway. Helplessly, he catches Chase's gaze, shrugging in a gesture which says he can do nothing more to help their case. Tensing, Chase rests his hand on Cameron's shoulder, hoping she is not desperate enough to try anything truly rash.

"No message," she says at last, seeming to sense their momentary defeat. "We'll leave. Dr. Cohen knows where to find us if she becomes interested in our help."

—

_10__:56 A.M._

_December 8, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

It begins snowing again around mid-morning. The rain turns to dirty, semi-solid flakes in a drab gray sky, the wind kicking up little flurries of them to gust against the lobby windows before dropping to melt into the rainwater puddles still left over from the previous night's constant drizzle. They have been sitting on one of the lumpy brown couches in the breakfast room since coming back from the high school, hanging in a tense sort of limbo.

Cameron has a takeout cup of the bitter hotel coffee set on the side table, but she has barely sipped from it in the past two hours, and a cool milky skin has begun to form on its surface. She looks as though she would rather be back in bed, but has said very little since leaving the lab, once again stoically refusing to publically show any sort of vulnerability. Chase feels terribly unsettled once more, desperate to help but sensing for once that what she wants is silence.

"It doesn't make any sense," she says at last, picking up her coffee cup and swirling it a little before setting it back down with a look of disgust.

"What?" asks Chase, feeling oddly disoriented after so much time simply watching the snow. He has turned the case over and over in his mind, and now feels as though the line has blurred between reality and hypothetical.

"The bats," says Cameron, pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose and wincing. "I don't know how they would be connected. There was no contamination in the food. We've found no contamination in any of the wild agricultural samples we've taken. Even _if_ the bats were somehow excreting virus, where is it going?"

Chase shakes his head. "I don't know. We obviously haven't tested everything from the woods. That wouldn't be possible. We can't guarantee that we would see it if there was virus in bat excrement somewhere."

Cameron shakes her head, looking as though she has more to say, but pausing as Barnes comes into the lobby, breathlessly glancing around before dropping onto the couch beside her.

"The bats are infected with Nipah," says Barnes, darkly. "All of them. And they're dying from it."

"And let me guess," says Cameron, sounding both bitter and unsurprised, "you're not supposed to be telling us about it."

"Exactly," says Barnes, glancing around again as though expecting the hotel lobby to somehow be filled with spies. "The necropsy results are now officially classified information. As far as the media's concerned for now, the mass bat deaths are unrelated. Dr. Cohen's afraid of a rumor panic."

"People _should_ be scared," says Cameron, then lowers her voice. "Forget that, though. Now we've got an epidemic on wings. _Anything_ could be contaminated. What was the pathology on the bats?"

"That's what's weird," says Barnes, perking up again. Politics and implications aside, he is an epidemiologist at heart, his interest rooted firmly in the science of this situation. "In South Asia, fruit bats are the vector for Nipah. It goes through their bodies, and is secreted in a form that's transmissible to humans. But it doesn't usually make the bats themselves sick. These guys are dying from it, and I'd say it must have happened pretty quickly, considering that we found no evidence of infection in trapped bats as recently as a few days ago."

"Are we sure this is Nipah, then?" asks Chase, suddenly getting the uneasy feeling which usually accompanies faulty diagnostic assumptions. "So far we've identified it by genetic comparison to past samples of virus. But what if there's a mutation somewhere? What if this is something entirely new and different, but with a structure similar enough to give us a positive test?"

"The tests are very specific," says Barnes. "I don't think we're wrong on our identification."

"But there is a margin of error, right?" Chase presses. "We keep assuming that Nipah virus here will act the same way as Nipah virus in Asia. But it hasn't been acting the same. So what's different?"

"The bat species," says Cameron, straightening. "They're relatives of the Asian fruit bats, but they're not genetically identical. Not to mention they've developed in a vastly different environment. Their immune systems are formed differently, primed differently. They'd have a different sensitivity to infection than their Asian counterparts. A few years ago, a study found that Australian fruit bats showed symptoms of subclinical infection when they were inoculated with Nipah under controlled circumstances. If these bats have no acquired immunity, they're just as susceptible as we are."

"So then how did the bats get the virus in the first place?" asks Chase. "Usually it's the bats that introduce it to the human population. But in this outbreak, it's backwards."

"Unless it's not," says Cameron, darkly. Just looking at her gives Chase a thrill of adrenaline; he can hear in her voice that she is onto something, though the answer is not yet fully formed. "You said it yourself. We couldn't possibly test every bat or every sample from the woods. But what if the infected bats weren't available to us to test?"

"What do you mean?" Barnes frowns. "Are you saying you think there's a wild bat population somewhere else that we haven't discovered? We've been pretty exhaustive with the traps."

"I'm saying—What if it's _not_ a wild bat population?" Cameron leans closer, lowering her voice further still. There is no one in the lobby but the clerk behind the front desk, but this conversation still feels like a terrible risk. "This outbreak doesn't make any sense, because it's not following any kind of natural pattern we've ever seen before. So—then it only makes sense to look for an _un_natural explanation. Before this happened, we were pretty well convinced that a person was behind the spread of infection. So—what would you do, if you wanted to deliberately spread a plague of Nipah virus?"

"I'd infect something that couldn't be controlled," says Chase, at last understanding where she's taking this discussion.

"Exactly." Cameron bites her lip, taking a breath. "Start by making people afraid. Selectively target your enemies, by infecting a common item—like food. Keep a captive colony of bats, which you can inoculate with virus. Once they're released and infect the wild population—You could almost call it an act of god."

"We need to search Mr. Creepyham's diner again," says Barnes, looking shaken. "And his garden. All the premises, actually. I don't care if it gets me fired."

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	31. Chapter 31

TITLE: The Long Count (31/33) 

**NOTE: You will notice that I knocked a chapter off the length of this fic. That's because I have decided that I AM writing a sequel, so some of the wrap-up I had originally planned will instead be transplanted into the beginning of that fic. Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy the last few chapters. :)**

* * *

Chapter Thirty-One

_9:14 P.M._

_December 8, 2012_

_Oceanview Motel_

_Oceanview, OR_

Cameron's hotel room has taken on the air of a warzone, a secret command post in the midst of an unseen skirmish. Chase has spent most of the afternoon asleep following her request for time to work alone. He wants to trust her instructions, to believe that she will be honest about her needs now. Still, he feels a sense of apprehension as he reaches her door; she has admitted her despair, her past apathy toward her own survival and now he is supporting her in what promises to be a desperate risk. There is an exquisite intimacy in hearing her confessions, yet the past twenty-four hours have reminded him of how very much a stranger she has become, and perhaps always been. Now he fears for her safety, though the last thing he wants is to cause her to retreat into defense and mistrust once more.

At Chase's knock, she opens the door only a crack, her eyes filled with an intoxicating mix of exhaustion and anxiety. "Come in," she says softly, stepping back to let him in.

Cameron's bed is a sea of papers, graphs, printouts of spreadsheets, survey data and interview transcripts. It is as though the belly of this case has been split open, facts and figures vomited all over the faded floral comforter. They are at the tipping point, Chase thinks; he can sense the tension in the air, so palpable that he feels smothered by it. Tonight they will cross the point of no return, he is certain, though whether success or failure waits on the other side, he cannot be sure.

"I got your message," says Chase, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu from the morning. She has told him only to meet her here, and nothing further. "What's going on?" He wants to believe that she now views him as a partner in the case, a confidante. And yet this is all completely on her terms. He tries to remind himself of professional boundaries, yet cannot shake the similarity to the way their relationship began.

"We're going to the diner," says Cameron simply. "And we're going to solve this case."

"We're not on the case," says Chase, testing cautiously. "Not technically, anyway. You know there's no way Dr. Cohen won't find out if we go charging in there right now. If that's what you want, then you know I'll be right there with you. But I just—need to be sure you know what you're doing, Allison."

Cameron stiffens at this, taking a step backwards. She is quiet for a long moment before finally speaking. "You think I might have completely lost it. That—I might be throwing my career away by doing this, and if we're wrong—"

"I don't want to see what it would do to you if we try this and we're wrong," Chase admits quietly. Taking a breath, he reaches out and catches her hand lightly; her fingers are shaking against his.

"We're not wrong," Cameron whispers, her breath tickling his cheek. "And I don't think we can afford _not_ to try." Leaning back again, she laughs, surprising him with the sudden shift. "I sound like House, don't I." It isn't a question.

Chase snorts, feeling a layer of anxiety melt away at the sound of her laughter. "A little bit, yeah. Without obnoxious arrogance."

Cameron smiles again, but before she can say anything further, there's a knock at the door. Chase stands back to watch as she opens the door for Barnes, who is dragging an enormous garbage bag of something very heavy behind him.

"Dr. Chase!" Barnes exclaims, looking happily surprised to see him as always. He swings the garbage bag over his shoulder and drops it unceremoniously in the middle of the bed, then pulls out the face plate of a HazMat suit, holding it up like an incongruous modern knight. "I got what you asked for, Boss Lady."

"You got three?" asks Cameron, crossing the room to look into the bag. She exhales slowly, visibly trying to calm herself, but Chase still recognizes the tension in her shoulders. It occurs to him that these suits must be stolen, lifted from the lab at the high school while Cohen's team was somehow preoccupied.

Barnes nods. "Did some snooping, too. Think I could get used to this whole renegade thing." He grins and winks, though the gesture falls far short of looking suave.

"Do you maybe want to tell us what you found out in your snooping, Harry?" Cameron prompts.

"Oh, right." Barnes runs a hand through his hair. "Dr. Cohen has a video conference with Atlanta starting in fifteen minutes. Sounds like it could last a while."

"Then it sounds like now is the time to go," says Cameron, visibly steeling herself. "That should at least give us a head start before she gets word and shows up with the police."

—

_10:13 P.M._

_December 8, 2012_

_Deep Sea Diner_

_Oceanview, OR_

"I take it you remember how to pick a lock?" asks Cameron, turning to Chase as she pulls into the parking lot. Her voice is scarcely above a whisper, though they are still inside the Jeep, and there is nobody around besides. The day's cars are gone; there are not even security lights to break up the filmy veil of the night.

"Not exactly a skill you forget," Chase answers, swallowing. He is keenly aware of House's absence in this operation, and wonders where he is tonight. Much as he mistrusts House now, Chase feels as though it might somehow be comforting to have him along, a guarantee of sorts for the success of their search. If there is a solution to the case to be found here, House would be certain to locate it.

"Are you sure we should park here?" asks Barnes, leaning forward to poke his head between the two front seats. "I mean, our car is pretty recognizable.

"We're not going to be able to keep this a secret," says Cameron firmly. "We'll just have to go quickly, and hope we find something before we get discovered."

With that, she turns the car off and steps out, moving to the back seat where the bag of HazMat suits lies. Chase follows her, fumbling on the slightly uneven ground. His head is still pounding from tension and lack of sleep, his body feeling clumsy and ineffectual. Quickly, she sets the suits out, undeterred by the darkness or her own fatigue.

"We each put one of these on," she instructs, softly. "Chase, you get the door. There might be an alarm. It doesn't matter. Whatever happens, we get inside, go straight to the kitchen, start searching as quickly as possible. Remember safety is our first priority. We should assume that everything in the diner is a potential source of contamination. If we don't find anything in the kitchen, we immediately go out the back door and search the land in back. Everyone should take a flashlight and a sampling kit, too."

Chase jumps as she presses one into his palm, the cool plastic a shock in the night air.

"And what if we do find something?" he asks, feeling deeply unsettled. "The suits will protect us, but we have no way to decontaminate them. No outside containment. We can't just—walk out of here and go back to the hotel when we might be covered in virus."

"We're not here to get out," Cameron says darkly. "We're here to gather evidence. Whatever we find, we take samples. Then—assuming we haven't already been discovered—we call the rest of the team. Just hope we find something incriminating enough that Dr. Cohen will be forced to test it, regardless of her opinion of me."

Chase sucks in a breath, once again trying to shake off the sense of dread, to convince himself that this is the only way, and he is right in trusting her. They have no choice now, besides; it seems clear that the CDC team will continue to ignore the human factors in this case, and he cannot bear to stand by and watch more lives be lost.

Slipping into the HazMat suit fills him with a profound claustrophobia. Chase feels as though he might be covering himself in a body bag, about to enter into his own tomb. And yet, the material feels simultaneously flimsy and too thin, leaving him chilled as the snow continues to fall in little night flurries. The dark is unnerving, and he finds himself questioning whether the suit's protection is complete, acutely aware that he would not be able to tell now should it be breached with a tear or an incomplete seal. Still, there is nothing further he can do, and he forces himself to remember that they have spent the past few weeks working in far less protected conditions.

"Ready?" Cameron's voice is muffled through the faceplate of her suit, and the darkness.

"Ready," says Barnes, somehow now behind them. He slams the door of the Jeep, plunging them into complete darkness as the cab light fades, then Cameron's flashlight switches on.

"Ready," Chase repeats, swallowing down his anxiety as his breath fogs the plastic faceplate in front of his eyes.

He turns on his own flashlight, crossing the few feet of the parking lot to the door. It is shut tight, not even a night employee on the premises for cleaning. His heart beats in his temples as he works the lock, his fingers clumsy inside the suit's thick gloves. Instantly he thinks of another time and another suit, struggling to draw blood from Foreman's arm in the isolation room at the hospital, the utter terror he'd felt then. At last he feels the lock give, the handle turning in his palm. As the door swings inward, the little chime above the threshold sounds. Immediately afterward, the telltale shrillness of an alarm takes over, growing louder.

"Go," says Cameron, over his shoulder. "Straight to the kitchen."

"We're going to get arrested," Barnes protests, freezing with his flashlight beam cutting down the center of the dining room, little airborne particles of dust swarming in the light.

"Probably," Cameron answers tightly. "So get moving. At least that way, we'll have something to show for it."

Chase jumps as she brushes past his shoulder, switching on the lights in the main dining room. The sudden change stings his eyes; there is something eerie about all of the empty tables, the spotless floor. The place looks as though it has been scrubbed clean as a surgical theater.

Cameron leads the way into the kitchen, turning on more lights as she goes. The sounds of the alarm are nearly deafening now, seeming to reverberate off the interior of the suits. Time feels as though it has slowed to a crawl; Chase wonders how they have not been discovered yet, though rationally he knows they could not have been inside for more than a minute. In his mind's eye, he envisions finding nothing here but ordinary cooking supplies, remembers the crushing fear of arrest which haunted the months surrounding his divorce. Those nightmares have lessened lately, replaced with the safety of numbness. Now, it feels as though the forgotten pain must resurface if he is to return to feeling anything at all.

He stops in front of the first bank of cabinets, pulling them open. Inside are stacks of plates, all apparently clean. Still, Chase stacks them on the counter, preparing to take a sample of anything that might be growing unseen on their surface.

"Don't," Cameron interrupts. "We don't have time. Just keep searching. If we find something that looks suspicious, then we'll take samples."

"And what if it doesn't _look_ suspicious?" Chase protests. "What are you expecting, a big neon sign with the biohazard symbol? You know as well as I do that the answer is almost _always_ something that looks innocuous."

"We don't have time to take that gamble!" Cameron insists, looking panicked for the first time tonight. "We increase our likelihood of finding the answer if we cover more ground in our search. Keep going!"

"If we don't sample anything, we _definitely_ won't have anything to show for it." Turning his back on her, Chase continues with the sampling procedure, aware that his defiance will feel like a betrayal.

"Robert," she presses warningly, her tone rising.

"Guys!" Barnes calls from the other side of the room, seemingly oblivious to their argument. "Come look at this!"

Turning, Chase realizes that Barnes is standing at the door to walk-in refrigerator, looking at something on the shelf. Abandoning the plates and the evidence bag for the moment, he crosses the room so that he can see past the bulk of Barnes's suit, Cameron following close behind.

The refrigerator is entirely empty, save for an unmistakable test tube rack. It is the sort of equipment which belongs in a lab, should not play a role in anything related to food preparation, and Chase feels a chill at the sight of it. A multitude of thick glass test tubes rest in the rack; they are specialty equipment, not the type used for common, innocuous substances. Cameron's hand shakes visibly as she lifts one of them to the light. It is unlabeled and filled with pale yellow liquid.

"What is it?" asks Chase, scarcely recognizing the sound of his own voice in this world of surreality.

Cameron bites her lip behind the suit's face plate. "I think it's bat urine."

Outside, there is the sound of sirens.

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	32. Chapter 32

NOTE: Last chapter before the epilogue! Thank you all for reading.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Two

_6:43 A.M._

_December 9, 2012_

_Oceanview Police Department_

_Oceanview, OR_

The holding cell feels somehow even smaller than it did a few days prior, and no more familiar or less desolate. Time seems suspended here; there is no clock on the wall, and they have been stripped once again of everything but the requisite thin white quarantine gowns. To Chase, the darkened room feels as oppressive as the confessional booth where he'd found himself trapped years ago in a desperate bid for absolution. Barnes has been allowed to stay behind and aid the official team's search of the diner's premises, and Cameron has managed against all odds to fall asleep, her head resting weightily on Chase's shoulder. The night alone with his thoughts has felt interminable, interrupted only by the occasional echoes of a commotion elsewhere in the cavernous little police station.

In all likelihood, Chase thinks, they have now found the key to containing this outbreak. He feels oddly apathetic toward the consequences to his own career; it seems certain they will be charged with breaking and entering at minimum. Even a year ago, he would have felt terror at that prospect, would have worried about the possibility of his past crimes being discovered. Now, he feels only a strange numbness, a certain, unexpected melancholy in the ending of the case. The past month feels vaguely like a break from reality, has given him a drive and a purpose which his work for House seems to have lost.

And then there is Cameron, the impossibility forever haunting the depths of his memory, the endless possibilities which his life has not fulfilled. Watching her chest rise and fall in sleep, he feels as though he might be living an extended dream, their reconciliation inexorably tied up in the necessity of this case. Now that it is coming to an end, he wonders whether there is anything left to unite them, whether sleep-drenched promises and confessions soaked in vodka will hold true in the light of day. Whether the miles between them might still prove too vast in the end. The future now seems to loom large and desolate; every option comes at terrible cost.

He is nearing sleep at last when the door is thrown open with a loud scrape, the light spilling in a painful shock. Chase flinches, rubbing his eyes as his pupils struggle to adjust. Cameron sits up in a rush, looking equally disoriented, her face still lined with exhaustion.

"What's going on?" she asks immediately, her voice hoarse with the remnants of sleep.

"Your savior has arrived."

It is only then that Chase recognizes House as the figure silhouetted in the doorway, his eyes completing their adjustment to the light. He looks immensely pleased with himself, as though he is somehow single-handedly responsible for their success at the diner.

"Where the hell have you been?" asks Cameron, hugging herself and shivering. The quarantine gowns are paper thin, and the air spilling in from the open door holds the edge of the chill from outside.

Chase straightens, rubbing his eyes. "Did you post bail for us?"

House snorts. "God, no. All that pay-per-view _really_ adds up."

Cameron wrinkles her nose, looking disgusted. "And here I was worried that you wouldn't be able to amuse yourself while we were busy with the case."

"Why are you here if you're not bailing us out?" asks Chase, feeling frustration rising in his chest. At the moment he wants nothing more than to leave the holding room, to get a few hours of sleep in a real bed and change into clothes which are not so reminiscent of the hospital. House seems diminished out here, away from the context of the hospital, his caustic humor grating where once it might have been a sort of backwards comfort.

"I'm here to tell you that it turns out you're not entirely useless after all." House takes a few steps into the room, the tip of his cane tapping on the concrete floor. "Oliver Cunningham confessed early this morning. The charges against you two are being dropped, seeing as how your breaking and entering led directly to the discovery and arrest of a domestic terrorist. Which is good, because I _really_ didn't feel like going through any more resumes."

"So we're free to go?" Cameron is on her feet in an instant, looking oddly waifish in the harsh lighting and long white gown. "We need to go back to the diner. Is the team still there, searching?"

She turns to walk past him, but House stops her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You're going to need one of those funny suits before you go back. Also, you might want to put on some pants."

—

_8:07 A.M._

_December 9, 2012_

_Deep Sea Diner_

_Oceanview, OR_

By daylight, the outside of the diner looks like a scene from a fantasy horror movie. Its entrance has been tented by a portable containment room, this one much larger than the one at the high school's lab. Yellow crime scene tape marks off the edges of the premises, a much larger detail of police officers in from Portland to aid with the security effort. Chase feels a knot growing in the pit of his stomach as Cameron parks the Jeep on the street behind one of the emergency vehicles, wondering whether she is about to confront career disaster once more. She has insisted that House stay behind at the hotel, intent on doing damage control without his meddling influence.

Chase steels himself for a confrontation as they approach the officer standing at the front edge of the premises. Instead, the young man simply nods wordlessly, stepping aside to let them pass through to the outer edge of the containment setup.

"This is how the government does contrite," Cameron murmurs close to Chase's ear as they come to a stop just outside the tented airlock. "You don't get an actual apology. Just an implicit about-face in their attitude. I'll probably still have to do the peer review, too. For posterity's sake."

"I'm sorry," Chase says quietly, at a loss. He is aware that this must be a painful reality for her to face. The kind of rules she respects are the ones which protect the ability to save lives. It is clear that she is burned out on bureaucracy, and it seems only fair that she ought to receive some sort of public pardon or acknowledgement for her ultimate role in solving the case.

Cameron shrugs, handing him a suit without another word. She steps into her own with the practiced ease she has gained through years working in hazardous areas. Chase still feels clumsy as he pulls his own equipment securely into place, though less so than in the dark the previous night. Preparing to face the negative pressure seal and step into the biologically hot area, he feels paradoxically calmer than he has since arriving in Oceanview. The enemy is known now, in identity and location. And though there is every likelihood that he will come into contact with the virus now, he trusts at last in his own skill and protection, in Cameron's expertise which has found the source of contamination against all odds.

"Dr. Chase! Dr. Cameron!" Barnes meets them just on the other side of the airlock like an eager puppy, still wearing his own suit from the previous night. "They radioed to say you'd be coming in! I just told them it was about time they got you out of that jail cell." His boots are caked in grass and dried mud presumably from the rear gardens, but he seems unaware that he is tracking it onto the pristine tiles. That sort of contamination is the least of anyone's concern at the moment.

"Don't worry, we had a five star holding cell experience," says Cameron dryly, heading straight for the kitchen and leaving Barnes standing bewilderedly in her wake for a moment.

"They interrogated Cunningham this morning," he continues, recovering. "Detained him when he showed up to check on that alarm, and questioned him right out there in the parking lot. I got to watch!"

"We thought maybe you could catch us up on what we missed last night," Chase prompts, aware of how easy it is for Barnes to become completely derailed.

"Right!" he answers, hurrying after Cameron.

She is standing in the middle of the kitchen, which now looks like the bare skeleton of a restaurant. All of the cupboards stand empty, the various supplies which once occupied the shelves nowhere to be seen. The large walk-in refrigerator where they'd found the test tube rack the previous night is vacant as well, the cooling system shut off. The back door is tented in another mobile containment unit, the two working together to effectively control all air flow in and out of the building. This must be protocol, Chase knows, though its futility is not lost on him considering that they now face an epidemic spread by the wild bat population.

"You were right about the substance in the fridge, Dr. Cameron," says Barnes, breaking the silence. "It was bat urine. And you'll never guess what we found in the freezer." He is brimming with excitement.

"Bat carcasses?" asks Cameron immediately.

Barnes's face falls ever so slightly. "Well, okay, I guess you did guess. Bat carcasses. Dozens of them."

"They must have been used to extract the infected urine," says Cameron, unfazed by his disappointment. "And then the serum from the urine would have been used to dose the food. But only Cunningham's enemies, or individuals who had no connection to anyone working at the diner. That explains why, in the early weeks of the outbreak, nobody directly affiliated with this place got sick."

Barnes nods. "Come on. You have to see out back."

He leads them out through the second airlock, though this time they remain inside the protection of the HazMat suits. The diner's back gardens are crawling with CDC personnel, a massive operation which seems to be designed to overturn and sample every inch of earth on the premises. Barnes stops in front of a shed, carefully opening the doors. Chase inhales sharply as it becomes clear that the floor is covered in bat droppings, inches deep.

"This is where they kept the colony," says Barnes. "It was just a small group of bats, at first. Cunningham originally intended to infect just a few people through the food, and then let the virus spread from person to person. But it wasn't working fast enough. We showed up and threatened to contain the outbreak before it ever really got going. Plus, the bats were dying too quickly from the virus itself. So he released what was left of them. Let them infect the wild population."

"But why?" asks Chase. "Why create a plague at all? I mean, Smith I'd understand. He's got a motive, at least from his own perspective. Kill the sinners, get a jump start on the End of Days. But I thought Cunningham subscribed to the Mayan synchronicity theory. Collective evolution of consciousness. Isn't that what his group's all about?"

"Well, technically, yeah," says Barnes. "But from what he was saying this morning—He and Smith pretty much subscribe to the same system of beliefs. They just happen to name the characters a little bit differently. Cunningham figures the world is about to undergo a major natural upheaval, but that it could move us toward catastrophe or triumph, depending on the choices we make. Either way, in his view, the planet isn't sustainable with its current population. So he decided to create a plague. A tool for 'natural' purging, if you will."

"Eco terrorism," Cameron finishes. "Save the planet by wiping out the majority of the human race. Does he realize that he put himself at risk to be killed by his own plague the minute he released it into the wild?"

Barnes nods. "Yep. Nature's will, he says."

Cameron rolls her eyes. "Too bad House wasn't here. He'd have a ball with Cunningham."

"Mr. Cunningham made a pilgrimage to Asia a few months ago," says Barnes. "With the intention of bringing back some date palm sap contaminated with Nipah-infected bat urine. He smuggled it into the country disguised as one of his health food potions."

Out of the corner of his eye, Chase becomes aware of Martha Cohen approaching. There is something especially imposing about her poise and gait, even blunted by her own containment suit. Barnes falls silent as she nears, and Cameron turns to face her, as though awaiting judgment.

"Dr. Cameron," says Cohen, nodding her greeting. "Dr. Chase."

Cameron dips her head in return, all signs of her previous bitter defiance gone. "Good morning, Dr. Cohen. It looks like your team has done a very thorough job in wrapping up this case."

"We've made a good deal of progress," Cohen agrees. "Thanks to the discovery of the infected urine being stored in the refrigerator here."

Chase notices that she does not directly credit any of them, nor has she acknowledged her own errors in attempting to ignore the human elements of this case. He guesses that Cameron will turn out to be correct, that there will be no overt apology offered.

"But there's still a long way to go before the outbreak is contained," says Cameron. "Not to mention the lives that have already been lost."

Cohen nods again. "Well said, Dr. Cameron. But as you know, I have responsibilities with many other branches of the EIS. I trust that you will be more than capable of overseeing the containment efforts, with the full resources and personnel of the Portland field office at your disposal." With that, she turns to leave.

"Guess I'm not suspended anymore," says Cameron, as soon as Cohen is out of earshot once more.

"Boss Lady's back!" proclaims Barnes, pumping his fist in the air.

Cameron rolls her eyes, a slow grin spreading across her face. "I think I've got the job of a lifetime for Dr. Hale. And House, since he so generously offered his services here. It involves a shovel and some infected bat dung."

"Well," says Chase, "if the world does end in a couple weeks, at least you'll know you've settled up on karma."

* * *

Feedback is always appreciated!


	33. Chapter 33

**NOTES: Thanks for reading, everyone! I hope you've enjoyed this fic. I am writing a sequel, and will have the first chapter of that up within the next couple of weeks. I'm also planning to write a commentary post like I did for TRIS. ****Look for that soon also. Finally**, there's a link to the playlist post for this fic on my LJ. You can find that on my FF.n profile. I hope you'll check it out! I really appreciate everyone's support. :)

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Epilogue

_4__:09 P.M._

_December 24__, 2012_

_Centers for Disease Control and Prevention_

_Atlanta, GA_

Someone has left a newspaper on the end table in the little outer office where Chase is waiting. 'December 21st Passes, World Does Not End,' the headline proclaims proudly. Beneath the bold block letters are photos of empty supermarket shelves, and a group of people with signs, gathered on a hilltop to await the coming apocalypse. Seeing these images, Chase thinks that these people have no idea just how close they have come to disaster. It has taken nearly three weeks to contain the outbreak in Oceanview, which has involved eradicating most of the local wild bat population. In the meantime, there have been a handful of additional deaths, some who were infected during Smith's protest, some who became ill even after the source of infection was identified. Cameron has handled the remainder of the case with extraordinary stoicism, the perfect armor Chase would never have expected from her.

Now he sits back in an overly-upholstered chair, and watches an hour tick down on the clock above the small desk where a bored-looking secretary sits entering some sort of data into the computer. He has already done his part testifying for Cameron in the peer review, and as an outsider is excluded from the rest of the proceedings. He had thought it might end quickly, being mostly a formality at this point, but that is proving false. Sitting in the silence now, he remembers his own time in front of a committee, the sting of baring his most private tragedy to a panel of cool, detached administrators. He wonders now what the outcome will be for Cameron, whether she will choose to stay with the EIS if given the chance, or move back into practice. Secretly, he finds himself hoping that she might decide the impossible, and choose to come back to Princeton, though he knows in his heart that things can never go back to the way they were before. Whatever happens now, there is a difficult discussion to be had with her over dinner, and he has not yet made up his own mind.

As the clock ticks on, anxiety swells in the pit of his stomach; it feels as though the future might need to be decided on a moment's notice. Cameron has a late evening flight back to Chicago, just in time to open presents under the tree with her family, and he knows that there will not be much time before she is due at the airport. He is fighting off the memory of Christmas past when the door opens at last, and Cameron exits the conference room alone.

"How'd it go?" asks Chase, getting to his feet in a rush. She looks tired and a little haggard; her packed suitcase is already in her car, awaiting the rest of this endless night.

Cameron shrugs. "Do you want to get dinner? I've got a little less than an hour before I have to be at the airport."

"Okay," Chase answers quickly, taking her cue to wait for discussion. "But it's Christmas Eve. Is anything going to be open?"

"There's a McDonald's down the street," she offers, grimacing. "I don't really have time for anything fancier anyway."

Chase smiles, following her toward the office door. "Well, I'm pretty sure the food won't be contaminated with any bat urine. So really, they've got an advantage there."

—

_5:39 P.M._

_December 24, 2012_

_McDonald's_

_Atlanta, GA_

The inside of the restaurant seems entirely saturated in the smell of French fries and cheap disinfectant. Chase glances around as they sit at their table, a tray heaped with food between them. There is only one other patron present tonight: a lone elderly man, seated in the corner and staring out at the parking lot. Chase finds himself wondering whether this man might once have been his future. Whether such loneliness might yet be.

"I can't believe there's no snow here," he says at last, breaking the silence. They have driven separately; Cameron has not said another word about the case or peer review.

"It's the south," says Cameron, delicately dipping a fry into the little cup of ketchup they are sharing. She eats it in one bite, swallowing with effort. "I'm going to Africa right after the holidays."

Chase feels his appetite instantly vanish, his heart pounding in his temples. He had been hoping to be pleasantly surprised, he realizes, thinking that she might have been delaying this conversation because she'd decided to leave.

"You're staying with the EIS, then?" he asks, taking a sip of his drink. The soda's carbonation burns all the way down his throat, oddly reminiscent of the alcohol he'd so relied upon as a distraction before.

Cameron nods, looking down to meticulously unwrap her chicken sandwich. She unfolds the paper slowly, wrinkling her nose and blotting some of the grease off the meat before speaking again. "There's reports of what may be a novel hemorrhagic fever in Zaire. A preliminary team is already en route, but they've asked me and Barnes to join them in light of our success with this case."

"You're evading," says Chase, feeling the first swell of frustration rise. "A few weeks ago, you thought you'd made a mistake joining the EIS. You couldn't wait to get out. What's changed?" He cannot help remembering how defeated she has seemed for most of the case, how much bureaucracy and protocol have hurt her. It feels like a betrayal, in a way, for her to choose this over a clearer path to a future together. But then he is forced to remind himself of the thousand ways he has crushed her himself, how House's manipulation has threatened everything vital to both of their lives. The fears she has shared with him in the past month, spoken aloud between them for the first time.

Cameron fiddles with the paper some more, barely touching her food. Her hands are shaking again, Chase notices. "I decided—I'm tired of running away. House was right. Every time things get tough—I just let it all go. Start over. And I _do_ like my job. Or at least—I did before I stopped caring about anything. Maybe I could have that back. We _were_ right! We solved this case. They have to see that, whether they'll admit it or not. Maybe I could still do something bigger here. But the truth is, I'll never know if I give up again. I'll be stuck coasting _forever_."

"Then what about—us?" asks Chase, biting back a rush of hot grief. "Was this all just a nice vacation from reality? You were upset at the thought that we might not have a future together. Now you just want to throw that all away?"

Cameron flinches visibly, and Chase regrets the harshness of his words the instant they are out of his mouth. He is all too aware of his own choices which destroyed their marriage, of the many, many selfish fears he has put before her needs. Of the danger to make that mistake again now.

"I want to be with you," she answers quietly. "I want that more than anything in the world. But I can't have that be—everything, right now. I let that happen before, and when things fall apart, there was nothing left. So now—I need you to meet me halfway."

"You're asking me to move." Chase looks at his tray, poking a fry into the rapidly-congealing ketchup, then setting it down again. Nothing seems remotely appetizing anymore. If he's honest with himself, this is the same question that tore them apart three years before, the leap of faith he could not bring himself to make then. He owes this to her now, this and so much more in exchange for another chance. Forgiveness has seemed an impossibility for so long; making this commitment to be with her now ought to be simple. And yet he cannot shake the remnants of deep-rooted fear, cannot bring himself to look into the unknown of a future life beyond Princeton.

"I guess I am," says Cameron. Decisively, she wraps up the remains of her food, finished with her attempts at dinner. "You know I can't go back to Princeton. I'm sorry. But I think maybe now you're ready too."

"I don't know," Chase answers quickly, though the certainty has been mounting throughout the case. He feels as though House's hold on his life has been diminishing over the past month; he has now seen the manipulation for what it is. And yet, the thought of severing those ties still terrifies him, leaves the doubts resounding in his mind. There is no guarantee on their relationship either, he reminds himself. Even if he moves here, it remains uncertain whether or not they will be able to put the pieces back together. "I don't think I can decide right now, Allison. It's a big change."

Cameron bites her lip, then nods once, getting to her feet to throw the trash away. Only now does it occur to Chase that they are running out of time, that she needs to be leaving for the airport. Time has seemed suspended for the course of this conversation. He moves to follow her toward the door.

"When you make up your mind, you know where to find me," she says simply, turning to leave. "I should go now."

"Allison, wait!" Chase calls, catching her just outside the door. Darkness has fallen, and now the air is chilled to a biting cold.

Cameron pauses, turning. In this moment, Chase feels a promise on the tip of his tongue, knows without question that he cannot bear to lose this chance again. But he cannot quite find the words, knows beneath the desperate flutter of his heart that this must be more than a hasty decision if it is to have any chance at success.

Instead, he steps forward, wrapping his arms around her in a rush. Cameron hugs back tightly, hooking her chin over his shoulder and holding on. Her breath is warm against his neck, a shock in the frigid night.

"I love you," Chase whispers against her ear. "I need you to know that."

"Merry Christmas," Cameron answers, then steps back again. She keeps her gaze locked with his for a long last moment before retreating into her car.

—

_5:28 P.M._

_December 25, 2012_

_Princeton, NJ_

The condo feels cold and empty as Chase comes through the door, suitcase dragging heavily behind him. The sun is already hanging low in the sky, long shadows stretching across the living room's hardwood floor. He becomes aware of the emptiness immediately; somehow this place now feels even less inhabited than his Oceanview hotel room. There is no Christmas tree, no sign of the season or time passing, nothing to suggest that anything here has ever changed.

Leaving his luggage abandoned in the front hallway, he switches on the television. A reporter is discussing the seasonal influenza outbreak, forecasting an expected death toll. Epidemics are all around, thinks Chase, though few ever make it into public awareness. He feels strangely invisible in that realization, as though the Oceanview outbreak might somehow have never existed.

He cannot say where he is going until he finds himself standing in front of the dresser in his bedroom, led by some subconscious yearning, the tug of an unforeseen future which seems to have taken hold on him now. The sock drawer is one of the few places in the condo which still resembles the days of their marriage. As he opens it, Chase inhales the scent of rosemary and lavender from a sachet Cameron had slipped into the corner on the day they'd first moved in. It smells of that sunlit afternoon at the church, of promises made and dreams imagined.

Taking a breath, he reaches into the back of the drawer, feeling around in the softness of cloth until he finds the familiar solidity of his abandoned wedding ring. It is the first time he has looked at it since the divorce, though before then he'd taken it out on a regular basis, a twisted sort of personal penance.

Holding the ring up to the light, Chase turns it in his fingers, watching the delicate band glint in the orange glow of the setting sun. Little sunbeams bounce off the surface, fractured in a dozen different directions, setting the walls all around aglow.

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Feedback is always appreciated!


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